


The North is Ours

by GoldenGail3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Bobby B is stupid too, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotherly Love, Castles, Catelyn Tully Stark Bashing, Character Death, Cute Kids, Dark Fantasy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Full of fluff, Good Parent Ned Stark, Grief/Mourning, Horror, House Bolton, House Stark, Jon Snow is a Stark, Light Horror Elements, Low Fantasy, Medieval culture, No Stark incest, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, R Plus L Equals J, Rated For Violence, Rest assured this is the last one, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, The Dreadfort (ASoIaF), The North (ASOIAF), The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Warg Starks (ASoIaF), Winterfell, anti cersei lanniser/jaime lannister, everybody who needs to be bashed about their actions are bashed, flaying of foes, joff is a lonely little kid, rob and jon are such cuties, they are not the targaryens, typical medieval shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenGail3/pseuds/GoldenGail3
Summary: There was once a girl named Samara who had an older brother named Domeric. She and her family lived in the fearsome castle known as the Dreadfort, a place of ghosts and terrors.There was a boy named Robb, with four little siblings and a bastard half brother of his same age. He and his family live in Winterfell, a place of melancholy. It too had its ghosts.Samara and Robb are engaged by chance, at a young age by Ned Stark who wished to make the North strong. Will their unity be filled with joy or be kind of terror the Dreadfort inspired in the hearts of men?
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Dacey Mormont/Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow & Starks, Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s), Sansa Stark/Jon "The Smalljon" Umber, Shireen Baratheon/Bran Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 43





	1. The Dreadfort

_The dreadfort,_

_So long ago,_

Blood was dripping from the dark red bricks the castle fort was infamously built out of. The ignorant claimed that the Dreadfort was made from the blood of the victim's House Bolton had skinned alive and killed over the past century. But like most things concerning House Bolton, it is sheer nonsense spread by the foolish to make members of House Bolton seem far worse than they actually are. During winter months, the castle's lands - which are mostly flatlands and riverlands, have morning fog. No matter the time of the season, the Bolton's Dreadfort always looks fearsome and ominous. 

But onto the Dreadfort itself. First and foremost, the Dreadfort’s battlements are so huge that two armoured knights could ride their destries side by side on them and still have room on them. The castle’s walls were as strong and thick as Harrenhals. To repel invaders, the Dreadfort had four trebuchets on its battlements. The Dreadfort’s men at arms also had tanks filled with boiling water, just in case they needed to throw things down at the invading army. The Dreadfort had two drawbridges, one to the lake it was overlooking and the other to Dreadforts secondary castle and line of defense. The secondary castle overlooked the plain lands to the north of the castle. It used to house a forest until House Bolton prudently decided that an army could hide its location in the thick bush so they cut it all down. Now it was a grassland, flat and boring, but more than defensible. The Castle had several watch towers overlooking the grasslands in case of an attack by Wildings who sometimes came far enough north in raiding parties that they caused trouble for the people of the Dreadfort. The castles were equipped with firewood collected from forest that had come back and with matches to let the dreadfort know of an upcoming army. 

It’s location nearby overlooking a freshwater lake would make it hard for an enemy on land to starve out the castle. It was a lake of plenty, fish lived in it’s waters in abundance. The dreadfort had built some ships of its own to defend the lake against any who would dare attack the castle via the lake. 

House Bolton’s current members, the current occupations of the fearsome castle, was Lord Roose Bolton and his two children. Five year old Samara Bolton and her older brother Domeric. Their mother died giving birth to Samara just two years after Domeric’s own birth, making them quite motherless for the time being. Not to mention, their father was currently marshelling his own levies at the command of his liege lord, Lord Eddard Stark. There was a new rebellion brewing on the Iron Isles and the new King needed the North's help.

In the castle itself, a little girl with raven hair and ghost grey eyes sat on a simple white bench with her brother Domeric. It overlooked a small dark puddle that fed the massive heart tree in the middle of the forest around them. The Heart's tree was massive and twisted. It's leaves were a darker red than an average hearts tree, its carved face was so angry that it looked like it wanted to tear itself out of the ground. 

“Dommy, do you think it wants to attack us and eat the two of us for dinner?” Samara Bolton was sitting next to her brother, wrapped in so many furs that she looked like a polar bear. The young lady got cold easily, and some said she was sickly. The Maester denied her being sickly and believed her to be of the pinnacle of health. 

“No, it wants to attack our enemies and make them dinner. Papa told me so.” Domeric wasn’t scared of the tree. Papa had said it would make their enemies run in fear because it was angry at them. He believed papa. He wasn’t anything like Sammy the frightened. Sammy was scared of everything, she wasn’t supposed to be, she was a Bolton of the Dreadfort. People were supposed to be scared of her, not vice versa.

She clocked her head back, slightly. She was such a shy little thing. Shy and easily afraid, Sammy hid from people under her bed sometimes when their Lord father had tea with his petty lords. She didn’t even say hello to people her own age and avoided them to the best of her abilities Yet people said she was pretty. She had been blessed with good fortunate appearance wise, with her pale white snowy skin and her heart shaped face. Their Lord father was rather plain looking besides for his eyes. 

“We’d make a pretty lame meal for it anyhow. I doubt we’d even make our good tree here a good snack.” Domeric laughed at that. The two of them were both naturally skinny children, that much was true.

But Domeric wanted to tease her, to hear the cute girly shrieks she made when he told her a story. He felt like he could go to sleep solely on her shrieks alone. “Maybe it would eat you little sister thinking you were a baby bear. So wrapped up in furs you are.” She gave a little shriek and gently hit his shoulders. His little sister was a deeply important person to him, even if he teased her and made her shriek. She made him feel brave and noble, like a knight in those southern tales.

One of their cats purred up against Dom’s legs. Whenever he thought about pets, he thought about what a boy of his own age said to him once. That Boltons skinned their dogs and cats when they were puppies & kittens. That had really hurt his feelings though and he told Sammy about what that mean boy had said to him. He didn’t tell papa because he would’ve tore out that boy's tongue. He didn’t want that to happen. He however, told Sammy everything. She was so sweet and understanding that he felt like he could confide in her about everything. 

He picked up the grey and white kitten. It was so small and harmless, a fluff ball of warm soft fur. Who’d want to hurt such a thing? In bed, he slept with a riverlands shepherd puppy. He had fed it from birth with a bottles of cows milk, since its own bitch was dead. It was an intelligent little puppy, with black as black fur and deep brown eyes. He remembered it licking his cheeks and jumping on him for joy when he brought it to play fetch on the murky beach nearby the Dreadfort. Right now his pup was sleeping on a warm bed in the stewards chambers. The steward had promised he’d keep his puppy safe.

She huffed her little white cheeks out. “Do you think papa will come home safe, dommy?” He wondered about that too. If their papa died in battle, he’d be leaving the two of them orphans and him the next Lord of the Dreadfort. He was only seven, too young for such a massive responsibility on his shoulders. 

“I hope so, Sammy, I hope so.” The kitten was purring against his chest, loudly, and Dom knew he was smiling. But the thought of their father dying made both children feel like crying though. If he died, he’d leave them alone in a fort full of ghosts and screams. He remembered waking up in his bed to see a bloody man screaming at him before disappearing one second. It wasn’t his only ghostly encounter in the dreadfort. The dreadfort was filled with them, screaming and moaning in pain. His father didn’t seem to even notice them, but he and Sammy did. Sammy would sometimes come to his room in the middle of the night after one such ghostly experience and cuddled with him in his bed. Sometimes, they would even sleep like that, cuddled up against one another.

Their father sometimes had prisoners in the basement of the dreadfort that made such noises too. He wondered if he was skinning them alive and putting their skins in the skin room. Neither he nor Sammy had ever been brave enough to see the grotesques that room had to offer.

“I hope he doesn’t die, Dommy.” The sadness in her voice made him give his little Sammy a hug. He hoped that helped. He personally also wished to the gods of the North, the Heart tree god would deliver their father back home safely. They were only children, him and Sammy. They needed someone to care for them, and with their mother gone he was the only parent they had left in the world.

“I hope he doesn’t either, Sammy.” Dom patted her soft raven colored hair and kissed the top of her head. She gave him a small shy smile. Her teeth were pearly white and as straight as an arrow. The Steward, who had been arranging their lunch, came back to announce their meal was ready. Both children were positively famished and trailed behind the Steward like little ducklings, leaving behind the angry Heart Tree behind them, and the thick, black bush of trees that surrounded it. It would take the steward some time to get back, as the grove of trees surrounding the heart's wood was a maze to some. But not to them, Sammy and him had been running around the God's wood as soon as they were able to walk. They knew how to find the God's Wood and how to leave the maze of thick, black twisted trees surrounding the colossally sized god's wood. The Steward had a wood's man with him and they soon found their way back to the Dreadfork.


	2. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Robb and Jon Snow

Winterfell, 

292 AC,

_Winterfell’s massive heart tree was solemn and massive in size. It was the biggest tree in the god’s wood of Winterfell, which was a wild untame place. The God’s Wood of Winterfell was one of the biggest in the North, besides for maybe the Dreadfort. It was so big in length that a castle could be built within the sacred grove and it’d still be in the midst of a sprawling woodland._

_The common folk of Winter Town oft said that the castle was a solemn place, haunted by the spirits of old battles and winters long gone. But it’s more than just likely the tale told of the spirits of Winterfell are just tales told to scare children._

_Winterfell, under Lord Eddard Stark’s command, was a neat and orderly place. There were always guards patrolling the battlements of Winterfell. The guards themselves were competent and well trained. Winterfell’s four huge rampart towers were always in use and daily maintained._

_Winterfell had three watchtowers equipped with firewood in the case of an emergency, like wilding raiders. They also served as Winterfell’s second line of defense in the case of its walls being breached by an invading army. The Tower’s true purpose was to alarm the Lord of Winterfell an enemy army's presence and to prepare for a siege._

House Stark’s current members and occupiers of Winterfell were Lord Eddard Stark & his wife, Catelyn Tully Stark. So far, they had three trueborn children of their own. Six year old Robb, three year old Sansa, one year old Arya. Ned Stark also had a bastard son. His name was Jon Snow and he too was six years old.

It had been a year since Greyjoy’s rebellion and the realm moved forward. Lord Eddard Stark was plotting his children’s marriages to his bannerman. In the South, the Queen gave the King his second trueborn child, a girl this time. Jon Arryn’s wife had yet another miscarriage. King Robert reputedly had gotten another girl pregnant. 

The discussion of marriage contracts is a wearisome business, so to keep it short and simple. Lord Stark had made two marriage contracts, between House Stark and House Umber, House Bolton. Eddard Stark’s son Robb was to marry Lord Bolton’s daughter and Jon Umber’s young son of the same name was to marry Sansa Stark. Ned Stark promised to ward the young Bolton girl when she was older and the lord had made the same promise of fostership to Jon Umber but opposite. Instead of smallJon Umber being warded at Winterfell, it would be Sansa who joined them at Last Hearth as GreatJon Umber’s fosterling. Though she would be twelve when she did so, Lord Eddard Stark wanted to raise his eldest daughter alongside her siblings.

It is to be wondered what the Stark children themselves thought of such an arrangement… 

Within the grand, arching walls of Winterfell, two young boys were playing a game of chase in Winterfell’s courtyard. It usually was full of men of the guard doing drills around the massive courtyard but not today. Today the two little boys playing a game of chase got free reign of the courtyard.. One of the boys had red hair and blue eyes & the other had a long face with grey eyes.

Robb Stark was six years old and the heir of Winterfell. He and his half-brother Jon Snow loved playing chase, it was their favorite game to play. They could play for hours to the endless amusement of their father, who watched their game from time to time. One of them always tackled the other in the end, but there were no winners or losers to their game. They didn’t care for that sort of thing, really. Right now, he was on Jon’s heels right now. Jon was smaller and quicker than he was, but he was stronger and taller.

Right now Jon was on his heels as they ran back and forth across the courtyard like mad men. Zipping and zapping across some of it. Neither of them could make the entire field of the massive courtyard though. It was a mile long courtyard, far too long for their little feet to run across. 

He got Jon and tackled him, to both of their amusement. They both were laughing, joyous and free of responsibility. Their daddy had explained to Robb something about him being engaged to some girl from a scary House who bore a skinned man banner. Maester Luwin said they were the North’s second most powerful houses and a powerful ally to House Stark. All he got from it was that he had a responsibility and the carefree play fun he was having with Jon wouldn’t last forever. Robb had heard some things about the scary house and it scared him. He wondered what the girl was like. His daddy had said that she’d be a ward here in a couple of years, like Theon was currently.

Theon barely ever left his quarters he was so scared of daddy and Ice. Robb knew that he was here because of his daddy’s bad rebellion from last year and sometimes Theon talked to him. But not often. He was still recovering from the trauma of being taken away from his family on the Iron Isles Maester Lewin had told him and Jon. He was older than both he and Jon, at ten-and-one. Whenever Theon came out of his hiding and talked to them, he always sounded nervous so Robb made an effort to be kind to him whenever possible.

Soon enough, their game got destroyed by Robb’s momma who put her hands on his shoulders and escorted him somewhere else. She did not like him playing games with Jon Snow. She never even called him by his name, Jon, all she called him in a voice of ice was Snow. He did not understand why momma hated Jon so much, Jon was his brother and friend. Jon was his own age, not a baby like Sansa and Arya who spent their days crying in the nursery.

“I don’t like you playing that game with Him.” Him, Snow, and Boy were the only words she called Jon.

“But… Momma, he’s my brother!” His voice sounded so small and pathetic yet he had to protest for Jon. Jon was behind them, his grey eyes unreadable. He had daddy’s eye color and both hide emotion well enough.

His mother didn’t get a chance to say another word before their lord father was there. He looked angry for some reason before he dragged momma away. Did it have to do with Jon? He wondered.

“I’m sorry about momma Jon.” He put his hand behind his neck and rubbed it nervously. He did that whenever he got nervous. “I don’t know why she doesn't like you like me and daddy do.” 

Jon was baseborn and he remembered being told at one point that the baseborn grew more mature than the true born did. “Catelyn Tully doesn’t like being reminded of daddies infidelities during the King’s Rebellion. That’s why she doesn’t like me. I’m a living breathing reminder of another woman of daddy’s life.” Jon never called his mother anything but Catelyn Tully. 

Well, Robb though, I still think of you as my brother regardless of what mommy thinks.. “She… doesn’t have to think that… You don’t even know your own mommy.” Robb thought that was sad. He needed a mommy too and his mother was supposed to fill that place for him. Instead, she hated him and couldn’t even stand to look at him. Robb wanted his mother to do better by Jon.

Jon shrugged and a few minutes later Momma & Daddy came back. They took both boys to Maester Luwin for their daily lessons. They were currently doing their letters now but Maester Luwin was a patient teacher. He didn’t even raise his voice or make it mean and impatient when one of them made an error. Rather he helped them correct it in a nice voice. They spent the rest of the day doing lessons with Luwin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really hard to write about Jon and Robb as little ones. I hope I did a good job on it. 
> 
> Also writing so-and-so engaged to-who-and so forth is a challenge to make interesting but it needs to be done for plot!


	3. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boltons arrive at Winterfell.

The Dreadfort,

295 AC,

In the last three years, Samara’s older brother Domeric or Dommy, as she liked to call him, was currently squiring with their aunt Barbery in the Barrowlands. He was ten now, half a man grown as he was so fond of bragging. 

As for Samara herself, she was eight. No longer as easily cold as she was at five, she wore less furs and more silks. She wasn’t as scared either, when she was five she was scared of everything. Not anymore. People who lived at the Dreadfort didn’t feel scared for long.

Her dad said that when she turned eight that she’d go to Winterfell. Today was that day, and Samara had spent her day saying goodbye to the kittens and puppies of the Dreadfort. They were licking her hands and whimpering, which made it so much harder on her. She much preferred the company of animals than people. People still scared Samara as they did when she was five. People who didn’t even know her or Dom spread rumours about them, and Samara didn’t like it. Not one bit. 

Her dad had been making the arrangements for them to leave for Winterfell today. Her room had been packed and her clothing was stored in a giant wooden crate. Samara remembered laying in her bed as old great-aunt Helena read her stories for bed. She was old, with grey hair and a twisted back. Helena had once been beautiful, she had heard, but now she was old and told stories to put her & Dommy to sleep. 

She’d miss Helena and her stories. She told stories of the Ninepenny King’s war that her lord husband died during. But now she was going away, to a new place. 

They would be going to Winterfell in a wheelhouse, even though the trip was longer. The young raven-haired girl wandered into the large courtyard of the Dreadfort, her bright red-colored satin dress swishing and swirling as she went along. The courtyard was famously known for being the place that Bolton Red Kings of past had meals under the dripping corpses of those they murdered and flayed. They called it the Bloody Courtyard due to that bit of grisly history. The Dreadfort was full of grisly history, from top to bottom, It’s construction was an even bloodier affair than Harrenhal had been, which is quite a feet considering Black Harren’s project had taken so many lives that some speculate that about half of the small folks living in the Riverlands perished helping to construct it. 

Her Lord Father was currently flaying some wildlings raiders that had gotten past Winterfell’s defenses and had found themselves in the so-called Red Lands. The lands surrounding the Dreadfort were littered with the unmarked graves of past invaders attempting to take the castle. It was quite a place, the Dreadfort. 

Samara and her brother had actually seen a man being flayed by their father once before. He had told them that they needed to see how the Boltons dealt with their enemies. That event had made Samara significantly less scared of everything. Blood, shrieks, and pain of the man’s skin being taken off him, she remembered. He had been a leader of a pack of unruly wildings and her lord father had wanted to flay him to show the rest of the raiders what House Bolton did to their foes. Blood, gore, the tearing of skin. She had seen her father flaying off the man’s face, his screams were gruesome. “ _Our Knives Are Sharp”_ The Bolton’s House motto was and indeed her father’s knives were indeed sharp. 

Bloody screams, blood everywhere. Her father’s flaying knives were sharp, red with blood and tears of the man. White pale skin. The man’s once luxurious blonde curls had been shaved off as has his bread. He had blue eyes. Flesh curling under her father’s knife, gruesome screams, the sounds of death. She remembered him pleading for his life, a pathetic, crying sound. Her father didn’t listen, didn’t hear. He died in boiling agony several hours later when her father demanded that his guards put him on a cross outside the dreadfort to warn other wildings as to the fates of those who remained. The other wildings took note, for they all soon vanished after the man was put outside their gates.

Neither of them even liked it, Domeric had vomited and she didn’t leave her bedchambers for a week afterwards. But when she reemerged, she was a stronger less fearful little girl then beforehand. 

She was, however, looking at the wheelhouse itself. It was medium-sized, red-painted, on the top of the wooden wheelhouse was a pole bearing the flayed man banner. She wondered what awaited her at Winterfell. What kind of new experiences there was to be had. _And new horses I get to meet. I rather like horses and my teacher says I have a natural gift for riding. But daddy told me that we were going in the wheelhouse to look more formal and because I’m eight._ She’d miss her pony here, but she’d get a new one when they got to Winterfell no doubt. 

She could hear the screams of those being flayed distantly and ignored them - she was a Bolton of the Dreadfort and a girl of eight. Not a five year old anymore. 

“Why my lady.” The Head of the Guard bowed before her. He was an old man, past his prime, but well experienced and strong. “Are you looking forward to your experience with the Starks, little lady?” 

“ _Winter is Coming_ and so am I, Carl.” She gave him a genuine smile. She was actually looking for it though - new experiences, less living in a castle literally built on blood and bones, and new books to read. New people were scary to her though, but Carl had been with her family for as long as she could remember. He was like family in all but name.

“Clever girl. I have no doubt you’ll do wonderfully, you’ll be the first Boltons the Starks has fostered in generations. People there might say cruel things of you, sweetie, but remember, don’t let them break you. You are a Bolton of the Dreadfort, people should bow before you or lose their tongues.” 

Her smile slipped away and a sullen look arrived on her face. “I’d rather not have any lose their tongues on my behalf, but what cruel things will they say of me?’ She wasn’t naive, she knew of the bloodstained history of her House. Maester Henry had taught her some of it, at least. She knew that Winterfell had been sacked by House Bolton at least two times and each time they cut down Winterfell’s Heart. Of course it immediately got replanted again, but the Tree of Winterfell did not forget and it would loathe her presence. 

“That, my dearest, that your pretty white skin is kept so very white by you bathing in the blood of virgins. Or something along those lines, my dear, they might try to make you look like a monster.” 

"I am no monster!" The little girl light blue eyes widened.

"I know, sweetie, they _might_ try to make you seem like one. Don't let them bother you. That's my advice for you." Her Lordfather was done skinning those wildings, it would seem, because he came into the courtyard. He also was wearing different clothing - a blood red silk uniform, she noted. He had been wearing different clothing previously, but skinning people was bloody. She'd know, she's seen one done before. So much blood. So much blood and screaming. She had cried herself to sleep on the first night after seeing that.

Carl moved aside when he came and bowed. He moved away, to no doubt doing something with his guardsmen.

“Sammy, my little one, you will no doubt do great at Winterfell. You have a sweet, kind soul which our House does not often see. In the past, the Red Kings would’ve whipped you for being weak, admittedly they were extreme. They killed many of their sons in the belief that the strong should survive and the weak should die.” Roose Bolton, her Lord Father was a cruel man even if he kept it under the surface. Studtle, but he had a whole lake of cruelty and malice underneath the surface. It came out when people in the dreadfort did things he didn’t like, he’d often whip them and dismiss them from his service. One time, Samara remembered him taking the hand of one of their cupbearers for spilling a tiny amount of water on the table. But he lived by the saying “a quiet land, a peaceful people” which is why he agreed to this to begin with. 

“Didn’t the Red Kings also wear the skins of Stark Kings and Princes?” Samara tilted her head and stared at him.

“Yes. They are not the best example one should live by..”

“I shouldn’t tell them that in the special skinning room, we preserved the skin of their former Kings. They might take an awful offense to that.”

“That might leach away from our friendship, mentioning that small detail.” 

“'that might leach away from our friendship'" Her father was fond of leach jokes. Samara personally find them to be repulsive bloodsucking vampires and didn't know why he found it amusing to jest of them. "Why are you so fond of leach jokes daddy?"

He gave her a small smile. "Because." He shrugged. "I find amusement in whatever I want too." 

“Well I hope when I’m older I don’t have to leech my skin. They leave marks from where those vampires suck on your blood and I want to be perfect for my stay at Winterfell.’

Her Lord father laughed. It was a cold sound. Her lord father laughed very little.“ On the topic of Winterfell, we must be getting there soon, Sammy dearest. It will be a longer bumpy ride, in this wheelhouse.” He brushed his hand against her cheek, a thing he did in affection. He said that she had very soft and pretty white skin. She used to think it was nice, until she saw him flay the skin of someone and she thought otherwise now. Now she thought it was disturbing. 

“Why can’t we ride horses papa? I’m a natural horseback rider...:” 

“Because I say we ride in the wheelhouse and what I say shouldn’t be questioned.” When he said that, she knew he was ending the discussion once and for all. She fell silent. Papa was not one for being questioned when he ended discussions like these. 

Daddy let the guardsman know which ones were his own personal guards, the ones guarding the wheelhouse, and which ones were to stay at the Dreadfort. While he was getting everything all ready for their departure, Karl escorted her into the Wheelhouse. Her father came in soon afterwards and off they went in the bumpy wooden wheelhouse.

The wheelhouse had two rooms to sleep in, a kitchen staffed by servants and a room with a couch in it. It was simple enough, just the bare minimum for survival. They were not southerners who made the most expensive and exaggerated wheelhouses. They were Northerners, they did things to survive, not to display their wealth like the Southerners did. 

____________

Several weeks later,

Ned Stark had made sure that when the Boltons arrived, his children were well dressed and prepared for their arrival. 

His wife Catelyn was holding their son Bran, who had only just turned two years of age recently. She had been suspicious no doubt of the Leech Lord, but so did Ned. Ned had heard the most unsavory rumors in regards to Roose Bolton.

They had travelled via wheelhouse. Their wheelhouse was made of wood, painted pink, and was simplex in design. No doubt Lord Bolton had decided such because it made for a formal entrance. By their side, the wheelhouse was surrounded by about half-a dozen men-at-arms. One of their guards carried the flayed man banner, the sinister sigil of House Bolton. 

One of the Guard’s men opened the big wooden door of the wheelhouse. Out of which came a young girl with raven-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Her father shared her same coloring, raven hair and ice blue eyes. He was dressed in blood red silk, with skulls and crystals fashioned to look like blood drops decorating the silken guard he wore. His daughter wore a bright pink dress decorated with bleeding skulls and darkened reaper blades. 

Lord Bolton bowed before him, as did his daughter. She was pretty, Ned had to admit, in a very icy cold kind of way. She had such pale skin, as though she had never seen the light of the sun. Her face was heartshaped true, but her eyes. Those were her father’s eyes, as cold and full of ice as they came. Heir raven-locks were braided together with a lock of red silk. He lips were full and cherry-red coloured

“I welcome you all to Winterfell, may your stay here be fruitful, Lord Bolton and little lady Bolton.” He’d say to them. Lord Bolton had a very small and quiet voice, but all men paused to hear what he had to say. He had that effect on people, his queer soft voice could overcome even the loudest. 

He’d introduce his children to the little lady who was of age with Robb and Jon. She was a shy girl, Ned noted, her own introductions were done softly and quietly. 

“I’m honored that House Stark is taking my young daughter Samara, as a ward. A quiet land, a peaceful people, may our houses grow strong and prosper together.” 

Ned hoped so too. The girl quietly stood by her father. Ned hadn’t even heard or seen the girl move. She had been somewhere else just a few minutes ago. 

“I hope so too, Lord Bolton.” Ned needed their help to make the North strong and durable. Ever since Robert’s Rebellion, whereas the Mad King Aerys II had burned his brother and father, he had felt the need to strengthen the North. Plus he wanted friends close by, not in the far away South. Ned was tired of the South and all of its politics. “I need friends in the North, to strengthen and make sure that if another Aerys comes, we will be united in friendship. I’d rather have my friends surround me, not enemies.” 

“Wise all things considering. Southerners have done ‘nough to weaken us with their wars and petty politics.” He wasn’t wrong, they had lost some strength during the battle of the Trident. The battle which had resulted in the deaths of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the hands of Robert Baratheon, his old friend and current King. Ned sometimes heard news of the South from some singer or merchant. But he didn’t care, the South was so far away that Ned often felt like they were two different places entirely. 

“Exactly. Plus I’ve had ‘enough of them folks in the South. I’d rather look inwards than outwards, unlike my father.” The last time House Stark had looked south, his brother and father had been lost. Ned was not about to follow their example. 

He and the Leech Lord alongside their children, went into the Great Hall to feast. He had no doubt they must have been positively famished after their stay in that windowless wheelhouse. It had been modified, with both the flayed man sigil as well as their own flag together. He hoped it was enough of a sign of friendship, to put them side-by side. He hoped it wasn’t the last time they’d be seen together, unified, he hoped that Robb might take a liking to the quiet and shy Bolton girl. _Their union would make the two of us one big family and would untify the North. The Bolton’s are my second most powerful bannerman after the Umbers of Last Hearth. They commanded the biggest army of all my bannerman and together, we could defeat whatever the South has to throw at us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if people say that Roose is cruel for showing his children flaying, than you know nought of House Bolton.


	4. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scoup of life in King's Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter wasn't very good in my opinion. It just wasn't... that great, because I wasn't describing anything the kids did to get along or such, I was just describing how Samara felt about so-and-so, not about anything they actually did or said. Which isn't good for a plot line.

The South,

King’s Landing,

295 AC,

It was a hot day in the south, in the great big red-painted castle that sat upon Aegon’s High Hill. Originally, it’s name was Aegonfort until the Conqueror decided to make the hovel a proper castle. It’s construction was finished by Maegor I, who killed any involved in the building of the castle. He had said that only the dragon would know the secrets of the castle, not any outsider. But today, the Dragons weren’t living in the Red Keep, the stags were. His father had slayed the last Dragon Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident.

Joffrey Baratheon was doing boring history lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle about the Seven Kingdoms. He was only six of course and a boy of his age had to learn things, but he found history so tedious & boring. He found swordplay and mathematics more invigorating to the brain than boring, dead history. But he listened to Maester Pycelle’s tombstone lectury nevertheless, even if he was dreaming of being a great knight his father would be proud of. He dreamed of it, everyday, and it made him cry when his father ignored him. He dreamed of the day his father told him he was proud and gave him a hug. The thought gave Joffrey some hope, when he was older, things would be different. Things wouldn’t always be with his father hating him. He’d make him see how worthy of a son he was, someday.. 

All of his siblings were too young to play with. Mycrella was two years old and Tommen was but a newborn baby sucking on their mother’s tits. His father was too busy in between a mother’s wet cunt to notice him. His mother was too busy with Tommen. There were other children his age of course in the castle, but they were all scums of low birth. He wasn’t permitted to befriend such creatures. So he either had to be here listening to Pycelle teachings or doing something alone, neither of which were particularly fun. He wanted friends his own age. But his mother didn't want him to be hurt so his father didn't send for other boys. 

Joffrey spent some of his free time attempting to lift a mini version of his father’s famous hammer. He had heard stories of his deed at the Trident from his mother, whenever she came to put him to bed. But she was tired and slept very little since Tommen’s birth, so there was no time for that anymore. Joffrey felt real lonely that there was nobody to play with besides himself in the Red Keep. So he tried play-acting as his father whenever he was alone, pretending he was smashing Rhaegar’s ruby plated armor on the Trident. The hammer was too heavy for him to pick up, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to do so.

Sometimes, he could hear mummy and daddy fighting. Sometimes, he’d pick up a sentence or two, before running away. Today he did not run away. Today he found himself listening in on an entire quarrel between his two parents. _“Joffrey should be married to someone of high birth, certainly, but a Northerner girl? The Northerners are barbarians and they certainly don’t have the levies to help Joffrey when he’s King someday. Besides, Sansa, the eldest girl is to marry some Northerner Lord’s heir, she’s unavailable for marriage. The other girl Arya is a four year old. We can do better for him, let’s say Margaery Tyrell. Her family is close and near. They rule over a wild, fertile land and they have strength enough to dispose of anybody who means to do Joffrey harm.”_ His mother had said. His father responded with a shock of bostering laughter. _“Woman, Ned Stark’s one of my very oldest and most trusted friends. Not to mention his levies helped to gain my arse on the Iron Throne and helped to dispose of that arrogant squid lord’s rebellion against me. He has a daughter and I have a son & maybe, he’ll even say yes to my request. Someday, when the two of em are older and Joff's at that certain age, maybe I’ll even go visit ‘em in Winterfell meself.” _That was the last thing his father said before he left the room. 

The Stark’s word was most queer amongst the other Great Lords motto's. It did not declare its strength, nor virtues, nor had words of wisdom. No, it was ‘Winter is Coming’, a most strange saying.

His mother had told him that the Northerners were a bunch of uncouth barbarians who didn’t worship the seven, but trees carved with peculiar faces. His mother had called them Heart Trees and that all Great Houses, well, besides for the Arryns of the Eyre, had one. His mother had also had that no House in the South, well besides for the Blackwoods of Raventree, had worshipped them for thousands of years. That in the South, the God’s Wood wasn't a place of worship, but a place to have a walk and relax. The Sept with a holy septon was a place of worship, it was a place of civility and faith, where they didn’t worship some nameless wild god. They worshiped the Seven Gods here, Gods Joffrey had known his entire life and their names were as similar to him as the perfume his mother wore. When he was younger, a septa had even put him to sleep with songs dedicated to them. He felt as though he knew those songs by heart now.

He wondered why his father wanted him to marry some uncivilized girl from the North. The North was a cold country where snow even fell in the middle of summer there. 

His mother was always here, with him, holding him to his chest when he fell sad or upset. He felt lonely and he didn’t think his mother could help him in this respect. He wanted friends, but all he had was his mother and his father didn’t even _like_ him. His father never hugged him, gave him words of comfort, never did anything a father _ought_ to do. But he wanted his father’s attention and tried everything to obtain it, even if mostly ended in failure. All his father was concerned with was fucking whores and getting drunk, not with being a father or husband, for that matter. All his mother and father did was argue, they didn’t even like one another. 

Sometimes his mother came to visit him and left Tommen with a wet nurse. She brought him out on picnics and told him stories of the Lion Kings of Old. Before the Conqueror conquered them in the field of flames. Those stories made him proud of his Lannister lineage. The stories she told of them made the Old Kings seem like Aemon the Dragon Knight, so chivalrous and honorable. He hoped to be like them when he became King someday.

Uncle Jaime was too busy doing King’s Guard things to pay him any mind and Uncle Tyrion, the Imp as his mother called him, was at Casterly Rock. Grandfather visited court every once in a while, but Joffrey was scared of him. He too, was at Casterly Rock. He wondered when he came of age, he would be warded somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms to some great lord and be a squire to some great knight like Uncle Jaime. They might even have a son or some relative his own age, that he could make friends with. So he wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.

 _I hope it’s with uncle Renly. I like him, he’s always nice to me. He’s not like cold unsmiling uncle Stannis._ Joffrey thought, but he knew that was a childish dream. His mother loathed both of them, she thought uncle Renly was a selfish, pompous boy and uncle Stannis had a soft cock from avoiding his lady wife’s touch. Uncle Stannis had a daughter though, so Joffrey didn’t know what to make of that.

Ser Preston Greenfield was escorting him to his mother who awaited him in her chambers. More time with mother was less time alone, and Joffrey was sick of being alone for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If people go yeet me for considering a marriage contract between arya and joffrey it's only because bob here needs a reason to go to winterfell. no marriage means no bobby b going to winterfell.
> 
> i actually dont intend for arya to marry joffrey i have other plans for her so dont worry xd


	5. Mountain clans

Winterfell,

295 AC,

Ned Stark was making plans to improve his small folks lot. For starters, giving them new rights and farming lands. He also wanted his men to contain any raiders that might attack his peasantry too. Ned wanted them to feel safe farming and procreating, a well-defended land meant a happy people. A people more willing to farm and sell their wares at markets. People will full bellies and security had no reason to complain & they'd be more inclined to help if anything awry happened in the South.

As for his new ward, Samara Bolton. She was shy and quiet. He had put Septa Mordane in charge of her education and she had no complaints of the young ladies conduct, she was obedient and docile. She didn’t seem to possess any of House Bolton's famously well known traits of bloodthirstiness at any rate. But she put up a wall between herself and his own children, probably in self defense, Ned had some inkling of doing that himself in the Vale so long ago. He believed patience and time would be needed to get Samara Bolton out of her shell.

Ned wanted his heir Robb to go with him to the mountain tribes up nearby the Gift. He wanted to show the young man the lands he was to rule someday, and he might bring young Samara Bolton with him. She was going to be Robb’s lady someday, so he figured a field trip was in order. 

“The mountain clans live in fear of the Ironborn. My Lord father doesn’t fear them, he would make an example of them like he does wildings and their kind.” Samara Bolton said when she heard of the trip. He had no doubt what kind of example Lord Bolton would make of the Ironborn. Roose Bolton was a bloodthirsty man underneath that soft voice and kindly saying he was so fond of saying. 

“Oo, we've never been there before! I’m happy for a new experience and I hope it teaches me something new about my folk.” Robb was thrilled about it. They had indeed, never been to the clans before. He patted his son’s ginger curls. The clans would make Samara Bolton, as skinny as she was, fat with all the feasts they were about to have. The clans had loved feasting his lord father, so much he’d complain they were going to make him undo his belt to accommodate the weight he’d gain from his visit. 

Both of them would have a wooden cart filled with clothes for a couple of weeks time in preparation for the trip. Both of them went to Maester Luwin for lessons and they had been learning their sigils lately. Samara believed House Wull’s sigil was ridiculous. Ned Stark didn’t think she was wrong to think so, it was buckets after all. Lord Umber reportedly laughed when he saw their sigil on his lands, for they wore close friends and allies, Lord Umber and the Mountain clans. 

Cat had told him farewell with a kiss before they went off to the secluded tribes. Sometimes, Ned had heard that they did blood sacrifices before their heart tree like in days of old. He hoped neither of them had to see such a display. 

The children rode on ponies. The girl was happy and rode her horse like his little sister Lyanna did once. It was cute, seeing her ride on her horse with such carefreeness. 

Lord Umber was happy when they came around and asked about Sansa. He said little Sansa was doing just fine and was enjoying lemon cakes with Septa Mordane right now. Jon Umber looked at Samara Bolton and said she was a nice looking youngling but needed some meat on her skinny bones. The Lady Bolton was nice enough to the people and bowed before Lord Umber as was proper of a guest. His son did similarly, as was proper of the Heir of Winterfell. 

“That little lady seems kind of docile on what I’ve seen out of her Lord Father. He scares even me, that man loves the taste of blood even more than me. When we fightin’ on the Trident, he had the look of glee on his face at the prospect of a nice war and carnage, you know. I’m not the kind of man to be scared by no other man, but Roose Bolton just strikes me as one to be weary of. He makes me uneasy, treachery runs through their blood and Lord Bolton likes a war too much for one’s comfort. I think his daughter is a fine lil lassy though, she kind of reminds me of those ol’ faery tales o’ one of ‘em Riverlands Princesses, with hair as black as cole and skin as white as snow?” Ned believed that Princess got poisoned by an apple and died at the age six-and-ten after her father refused to marry her to an Andal war lord. They called her the White Princess, for at the time of her demise, she was said to be the fairest of all maids.

“Boltons make better friends then enemies.” Was the only response he had for Jon Umber. Why, Roose Bolton did like war a great deal, that wasn’t wrong. On the Iron Isles, he had heard an unsavory rumor of Lord Bolton skinning an Ironborn raider for a pair of boots. Skinning was illegal in the North for a thousand years hence the Red Kings bending their knee high bloody heels to the Kings of Winter. He hoped they didn’t continue practicing such a revolting tradition behind his back. 

“Aye, that’s not wrong. I’d rather have you nought join the skin room the Bolton’s keep at their bloody fort. Wariness saves us all, Ned.” A man as fearless as Jon Umber saying this was telling. Jon Umber was insanely brave and impulsive. He had saved Ned’s life several times during Balon’s rebellion by jumping right in front of the enemy with that great two handed sword of his. He had even had several fingers on his left hand cut off and the man had _laughed_ it off. 

He & Jon Umber had some whiskey together in honor of their friendship before they left for the clans on the morrow. 

The clans did indeed welcome them well enough even though everywhere Lady Samara went the young children looked at her with wide eyes. They probably thought she was going to skin them alive or something cruel. Stories of Bolton cruelty were as far reaching in the North as the bogeyman was.

The people of the clans were small and sparse, mere villages by the standards of the South. They were ruled by mere petty lords or chieftains, as they were called. Those cheftians were House Flint of the mountains, House Liddle, House Burley, House Harclay, House Knott, House Norrey and House Wull. The chieftain with the most men was his old friend Big Bucket. Ned had always wondered why House Wull had chosen a bucket as a sigil like he wondered why House Swyft of the Westerlands chose a chicken. 

The first one they met up with House Liddle, the one’s nearest House Umber’s lands. Their Chieftain was a medium sized man with narrow eyes. His name was Torren and he gave the first great feast in their honor. House Liddle’s sigil was three pinecones on a blue field. 

Ned Stark was not fastidious enough to describe all the food at the feast, but there was a melee to keep them entertained as they feasted. Lady Samara & his son Robb found it very entertaining and they cheered on the duelers. The winner of the contest put a small blue rose behind one of Lady Samara’s ears, claiming the rose was as beautiful as she was. She blushed and gave the man a small smile in response. 

They went to the other tribes too, where they saw other melees and such. But Ned Stark wasn’t the kind of man who’d describe things like food in great length for no reason. But all that needs to be said is, by the end Ned and the little ones gained about twenty pounds by the end.

If it needs to be said, the mountains around the Gift were a pretty picturesque kind of place. They had heart trees and forests here. It felt like a good place for a new couple to get away from the rest of the North here, with how wholesome and clean the air felt here. Like wild, untamed land. The Umber lands felt a little more tame because of the King’s Road presence on their lands, but the King’s Road wasn’t here to trouble the scenery. The children found the heart tree forests to be fascinating, and Robb felt like he was on the Isles of Faces here. It felt like a sacred place, the heart tree forests of the Mountain Tribes. They worshiped them even more fierce than Ned did, and clans danced around the trees at night to appease the Gods. It was a bizarre sight, Ned supposed, but he hoped the Gods were satisfied with what was offered to them. There was another time when he saw one of them kill a goose as an offering to the God’s Wood and put it in front of the Heart’s Tree. At Winterfell, sometimes people would put fruit baskets in front of the Heart’s Wood but never did they slaughter one of their livelihoods as an offering to the Gods. That was queer, but the North was the North, the South was the South, they did things differently here. 

Lady Samara thought the sight of the Tribes dancing was amusing. “The Gods watch men dancing in their glory and they surely must smile back. Or they think we’re fools, dancing like puppets in their service. The small folk at the Dreadfort sometimes bring food offerings to our heart tree because they think it will protect them against woes. My lord father worships at our heart tree whenever a wilding shapeshifter comes ‘round and bothers us. Our House’s sigil is because we were invaded by a band of bad shapeshifters who sought to dominate all life. They took mighty bears and other forms to subdue people into doing their biddings. Some even took possession of other humans into their service and made entire armies of beasts under their control. It is why my family decided to skin them, so they wouldn’t come back and all & would be warned of what we’d do to skin shapers. My lord father has a particularly cruel punishment for shapeshifters, even though they are rare these days. He’s scared of them, our House was built on what they did to people, and so he begs the Gods of the Heart Tree to save us from them whenever one comes in a wilding party.” Roose Bolton didn’t seem like a man scared of anything in Ned’s opinion. But he wondered who were the bad shapeshifters the girl told of.

Ned Stark wondered about that story from time to time and was deciding if they, House Stark, were the bad shapeshifters that sought to dominate all life. The thought was rather unsettling to Ned. Wasn’t House Stark supposed to be honorable and want to protect life, not dominate it? No wonder why they had the flayed man sigil if they were up against such foes....

‘Was the North dancin’ in front of our Heart Trees before the Dragons came and dominated us? Is this primordial Northerner stuff we’re watchin’ here, dad?” Before the Dragons came who knew what the Northerners of Old did in regards to their Heart Trees. Ned supposed that they probably took away a number of so-called uncivilled traditions in their honor when they joined Westeros as a region alongside the Southerners seven worshiping ones. They had to be a bit more civilized in what they did, or the Southerners would scream ‘barbarian’ and the King would have to put an end to whatever caused the South so much anxiety. 

“I don’t know, Robb. Being in a Kingdom with the South probably tamed us though, they’d throw a bloody fit over things like this. Call us on par to the free folk in the Vale. You know, so we have to be tame and civilized in our activities. The folks here are too far and remote for the rulings of the Iron Throne to affect them overly much so they get away with much more than we do.” 

“Oh, will it be the same when we visit the crannogman of the Neck? Will we see more hidden traditions? I hear Greywater Watch is almost impossible to find unless you're a Reed, because it moves! A moving castle, who wouldn’t want to see such a site?” The Freys wouldn’t, Ned wagered, by what he saw them to do to his friend Howland Reed at Harrenhalf so long ago.

“When we visit the Neck, we’ll have to pass through Moat Caillan and you can see some of the bog the crannogman lives in from upon it’s battlements. Besides, you need to see Moat Caillian at any rate. It has never been taken by any Southerner army in the thousands of years it has stood. A lord must know how to defend his people, and what better way for you to learn how to so than by visiting one of the North’s greatest defenses?”

“On the topic of the North's defenses we lack a fleet to defend ourselves against the Ironborn. Isn't that a major flaw in our defenses? We shouldn't let the Ironborn have free reign over coastlines. They'll carry away our woman and plunder our levies castles of wealth. It's not safe to let that kind of flaw be left to it's own devices. Father, I think we should build a fleet in case Theon Greyjoy's father decides to do something stupid and plunders us. Do you trust the Ironborn father to leave our juicy undefended coasts unharmed even though we hold him? I don't to be honest. The Ironborn aren't the most intelligent of people."

“I hadn’t considered that. Huh. I guess I should go build some ships to defend coastlines.” Ned Stark had no idea why his fore-bearers didn’t have a fleet actually. It seemed like a rather big mistep, considering the Iron born were well known to raid undefended coastlines. They should have one on hand in the event that Theon Greyjoy’s father signed his death certificate and decided to raid their coasts. It was better to be safe then sorry, afterall. 

“I'm glad to give you advice father."

"I didn't expect a eight year old to give me constructive advice on such things, but here we are." Ned Stark smiled at him and tousled his son’s ginger hair. He loved Robb and Sansa's Tully coloring. Playing with Robb's hair was like touching Catelyn's in spirit. He loved Cat's hair, it was beautiful, long and shinned like pennies in the sunlight. 

Robb smiled at him. "I'm glad I could help father. They are to be my people someday, and what kind of lord wouldn't do anything to protect his people?"

"A fool kind. I'm glad I taught you well Robb." 

With the Cheftians of the Weirwood forests, they’d spend two more days with them before they departed back to Winterfell. Lady Bolton believed she’s never ate better than with those clans and his son agreed. During their time with the tribes, Robb had gotten to know Samara Bolton better and they played together as friends. He said she was a bloody good horseman and all Ned thought about was Lyanna’s thrilled laugh as she rode like lighting through a field. Sometimes Samara reminded him of Lyanna, even though they were of completely oppostite characters. 

When they returned to Winterfell, Catelyn kissed him and Ned thought all things were well. He had a beautiful wife, a good keep, and happy people. What could possibly go wrong?


	6. The Manderly's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travel on folks on the express across the North.

Ned Stark,

Over the past year, Ned had been busy. From the South, King Robert sat, drinking and whoring all the while Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon ruled over the realm. Lord Stannis, being master of ships, came to visit him about the galleys he built nearby Sea Dragon’s Point. The man was cold and shrewd, but he seemed to approve of the plans to keep those bloody iron born at bay. That was good.

As for the North itself,

Lord Bolton was building warships of his own off of Sharp Point. Sharp Point was the bay one of Lord Bolton’s bannerman had control of. Ned didn’t know which one had control of the point, but he knew Lord Bolton had several petty lords and masters serving him as their lieglord.

Lord Umber was preparing for winter and for the series of wilding attacks no doubt was about to come his way. The Wildings attacks have been bad, Ned even had to admit. Over the past year or so, he’d had to kill at least several parties and he was getting tired of it. He demanded Lord Commander Qurogyle do something about it, to which the Dornish man feebly answered they didn’t have enough men to cover the entire wall and that there might be breeches as a result of this. 

Other lords did other things, such as Lady Maege Mormont whaling and so on forth. But this is a tale about the Starks and their wards, the young Samara Bolton and Theon Greyjoy. 

Like last year, this year they’d be going on an annual trip across the North. This year, Ned chose White Harbor, Ramsgate, and Widow’s Watch. They would go to Oldcastle too, but it was undergoing flooding this year and as such, they would be unable to go to the castle this year. Next year, it would be the Mormonts of Bear Island, and the year after that the Reeds of Greywater Watch. The reason he was doing this in parts is because Ned wanted the Northerner lords to expect his yearly visits to a new region, escorting his son and Samara Bolton & to show them the lands they were to rule over someday.

Widow’s Watch was a castle who sat above the sea and was ruled by the senior line of House Flint of Widow’s Watch. It had several junior branches, House Flint of the Mountains and House Flint of Flint’s Fingers, but it was the senior most line amongst the three of them. Their liege lord is Wyman Manderly of White Harbor and they pay homage to him. 

Ramsgate was a stout castle ruled by a petty lord with a ram as his sigil. He was not a particularly important lord. But in order to pass to Widow’s Watch, they’d need him to get them across the Broken Branch with his ships. So thus, they hads need to stop there and prepare for the cold voyage ahead of them.

White Harbor was ruled by the Manderly’s, a family of Southerner breed, they came to the North a thousand years ago after being driven out of the Reach. Their former family home used to be Dunstonbury, before they overreached themselves with the Gardener Kings and were driven out of the Reach with all their gold. They worshipped the New Gods, the Seven, as a result of their origin, but they were the richest family in the North. They didn’t have the brutal strength of House Bolton nor the levy numbers of House Karkstark, but they were influential and wielded a web of soft power. Which is why Ned had decided that he’d decide to visit them at White Harbor, because Lord Wyman Manderly was a good man to be friends with. Besides, Robb and Lady Samara Bolton could explore White Harbor, gaining an understanding of the land. 

When he told Lady Samara of this, she looked surprised before asking whenever they’d stop at Barrowton, the seat of House Dustin and the place her older brother was at. Ned had seen her brother before, with his raven hair and ice blue eyes, he seemed to be just as skittish around people as Samara was. He could see the family resemblance in them, both of them seemed to be a bit scared of people and the same colorings too. 

“Someday, Samara. I swear, you’ll see Domeric again.” He patted the girl’s raven hair. Her hair was positively long and straight. “You needn’t worry, child.” 

“But my auntie….” Ned Stark was aware of the women’s loathing of him, she blamed him for what befell William Dustin at Dorne and for not bringing back his bones. This was one of the reasons it was probably going to be one of the very last places he stopped at, to avoid conflict with Lady Barbary Dustin. 

“I know how she feels about me, sweet little thing. It’s.. a conflict of interest to me, her loathing of me and I know you want to see your brother again. I want you to be happy whilst you're here, did your Lord Father ever try to make you feel happy? I know you don’t indulge in sugars, but I feel like you're like a daughter to me, Samara.” Ned was real serious though, he truly did. She was such an innocence to the world and besides, he understood her well enough. She was shy and nervous, a sweet little girl underneath all her insecurities. Besides, she was so cute when she rode that he thought about his sister doing similarly. Lyanna _loved_ to ride and so she did. She’d often beat him with a hoot and smile on her lips, totally unashamedly in her victories.

Samara nodded before hugging him, her icy eyes had tears in them to his surprise. He had never seen Samara cry before, nor show much obvious emotions. “Thank you Lord Stark, for doing that. I’m afraid I will not see him in another year again, and I’d like to see him more than that, you know.” Ned understood her need, somewhat, even if he saw Benjen from time to time.

The girl was so innocent and pure, what other things could he want from her? She got along pretty well with Jon Snow, and the two rode side by side sometimes & had horse races, both of them hooting and cheering as they went along. _Promise me Ned._ Lyanna’s voice mixed with fear and desperation. 

“Anytime, sweetie.” When the young raven-haired girl, all he thought about was when he rescued Jon Snow from the Tower of Joy as a mere young lad. Once, he was as innocent and pure as the girl in front of him was. Now, he was a quick-tempered antisocial young man who kept to the shadows and avoided people making fun of him for being a bastard. Ned had never intended that sort of life for Jon, if truth be told, but Lyanna _promised_ him that he’d keep her bastard son by Rhaegar Targaryen safe. So he did, but whenever he looked at him, all he saw was Lyanna in him and none of Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe the Gods did a kindness to Jon by not allowing him to share Rhaegar’s coloring. The man had lied, manipulated and seduced his sister to get her to run away with him to Dorne. He had taken advantage of her not wanting to marry Robert. So Ned had an overall less than stellar opinion about Rhaegar and his actions. He was protecting Lyanna’s son, not _his_ , not the brainless boy borne by his wife Elia. Besides, he had named Jon himself after Lyanna departed from the world, she never named him anything and was nameless until Ned decided to name him after his mentor, Jon Arryn. He decided the boy deserved that at the most, being named after a respectable high lord.

Away from the thoughts of regret and sand blowing up in his face as he rode like the wind through Dorne to the Tower of Joy, was the trip he was planning across the North. He needed supplies and stuff to protect the two children & levies he planned to bring with them, as protection against any raiders and such

Catelyn wondered when he was going to visit Samara’s home, the Dreadfort, the castle of flayed bloodied bodies and death. Ned supposed he should, sometime, but not now because he wasn’t in the mood to see Roose Bolton if truth be told. Whilst he had nothing to complain about in regards to the Leech Lord, it didn’t mean he had any inkle of trust in the man. Not even with Samara’s presence.

Ned was preparing his guards to leave by making them pick up many food bags, full of wheat and cold, hard beef, from Winterfell’s grainery and cold storages. The cold beef would be preserved with salt. The reason for this is because Ned didn’t wish his company to go out with empty stomachs and prudency. Ned was above all else, a prudent man and sensible men planned for the unexpected. 

He also was arranging that his head of guards stay here in Winterfell and Ned would take his second-in command with him, so that Winterfell may stay in working condition while he was gone. Ned guessed about several months or so, give or take. Sansa was saddened she couldn’t go with them, but she was still too young for such an journey and besides, she still had Jeyne Poole & the septa. Not that Septa would be joining them, Samara’s new caretaker for the journey would be a fellow northerner woman, a Mormont of Bear Island. She was a distant cousin of the current ruling Lords of Bear Island, but she was a strong durable woman and she was Samara’s travelling caretaker as it was.

He was talking to Hullen about which horses he’d use to hale all their items across the North when Robb showed up. 

“So not the Reeds of Greywater Watch?” His son looked disappointed about this development. Ned had to smile, he had been so looking forward to meeting Howland Reed and his family on their floating castle that it no doubt hurt him that they weren’t going there this year. But the swamps were an inhospitable place in the best of times and one could even get lost within its reach, but it was only open during certain seasons due to its ever changing landscape. Usually it was open during summer, as it was, but this year was a rather unfortunate one alas and the swamps were closed for business.

“The swamps aren’t open this year, son. It’s a seasonal business, entering the swamps of the cragomen. They are an inhospitable place to most, so don’t take it personally Robb.” 

“Oh, I just wanted to see a moving castle dad. Bummer, I can wait another year if that’s what it takes and besides, White Harbor is a pretty cool city, it being the third most powerful city in Westeros. We went there when I was a baby, isn’t that right, father?” When Robb was three years old Ned went to White Harbor to discuss things with Wyman Manderly, things involving ships. But this year, Ned just wanted to bring his children there to see the lands they were to rule over someday, when they were old enough. Ned supposed they might talk about trading across the seas this time around, if Wyman had enough ships to send to Essos, but he didn’t really know. 

“Yes, Robb. House Manderly is the richest house of the North. While they aren’t the most powerful or have the most bannerman, they are still a power to be feared in their own right. We do them great honor by visiting them, like we shall do to our all Lord Bannerman in time. I’ve found that a yearly visit to one of their holds invites excitement amongst the Lords. Of course, some may take offense to us not visiting their holds or what not, but it’s petty stuff.” Ned also didn’t want to spend an entire year visiting every hold in the North so he did it in parts.

“Ok father. So next year will we visit the Reeds and Moat Calian?” 

“Maybe, my son, maybe.”

Robb looked thrilled before running off. He hoped that they could, sincerely. He continued talking to Hullen and they came to a concession on what to do. How many horses he’d be taking and what breeds they’d be & such. 

On their day of their secondary progress, Cat gave him a kiss and hugged him. She told him good luck and such, as a good wife must. As for the matter of Jon Snow, Ned had decided to bring him on his further expeditions as the boy clearly wasn’t happy here and Cat didn’t want him here when Ned wasn’t around, so he’d bring him too. Jon had been excited and had never seen White Harbor before, so it was a trip to a new place for all three children involved. 

The children had each packed their clothing in three huge wooden crates, like they were wont to do. 

Several weeks later,

White Harbor,

White Harbor was a city of sailors, for it smelled sharply of the sharp bitter taste of the sea. Ned remembered when he visited the terrible pirate islands of the Three Sisters during Robert’s Rebellion. He could recall the scent of the sea, as salty as one would care it to be. It smelled like that, alongside fishy scents like freshly caught salmon and codd. 

White Harbor was a clean city, well organized and well-patrolled. It may be a smaller city than King’s Landing, but it didn’t reek like that city did. Ned thought King’s Landing may be the stinkiest city in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and he had never visited Lannisport nor Old Town but somehow Ned doubted they smelled like a gutter like the capital did. The streets here were wide, straight and cobbled. It was an easy city to navigate, that was for sure. 

Ned and his entourage of guards bearing the Direwolf flag of House Stark were greeted by Lord Wyman Manderly and his own family. He was a stootish man, indeed, but still able enough to move around without escort. Even though he had double chins and he had a notable pot belly, he was still able enough as it was.. His sons were smaller versions of the Lord, robust but slightly overweight young men. They were far older than the three children he had with them. His oldest son, Wendel, was six-and-twenty of age whilst his youngest son Marlon was four-and-twenty. He had two granddaughters, one was ten years old, with long blonde hair and the other was one-and-ten years old. She had brown hair. Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly, both daughters of Wyllis Manderly, heir of White Harbor.

“What brings you here Lord Stark?” Wyman Manderly wasn’t a dumb man, that was for sure. Ned thought beneath his weight he was a sharp and capable man & one shouldn’t underestimate him just because he was fat. That was a folly in itself. “Is it the matter of ships? I built them as you asked me too.” 

“Lord Roose Bolton will be pleased to hear of it, for all his complaints of raiders invading through his strait, the Weeping Waters. But alas, that’s not why I’m here. You see, Lord Manderly, I’m sort of doing an unofficial once per year visit with one of my vessels. As you know, it’s a great honor and I have chosen you because I believe you may teach my son Robb here about how beneficial wielding soft power is.” And to visit his city of course. His children would no doubt love to wander around the city and discover new things, like the statue of the barnacle man with a trident in the square. 

"Ah, ever the dutiful lord you are, my lord. I hope to teach your son about how the business of influence is the practice of good leaders, even though everybody thinks I'm a coward. Like Lady Samara's lord father, he called me what was it, a fool?" Ned Stark knew something of the Dreadfort's relationship to White Harbor. They had lands conflicts every year or so, which resulted in the Lord of the Dreadfort going to Winterfell to complain about Lord Manderly taking his lands or so forth. They were nearly as bad as the Blackwoods and Brackens in this respect, but Bolton didn't seem wish to murder Wyman Manderly or Ned supposed a war might break out as a result. 

"The Lord of the Dreadfort and you are my most unruly bannerman when it comes to land. I think your fortunate he doesn't want to kill you, Lord Manderly. Lord Bolton is not a very merciful man and he strikes me as the sort who'd let a rival live. Neverthless, I'm not here for that either, or you'd find I'd be very annoyed with both of you." Ned Stark had very little patience for those who wasted his time with petty things like which land belonged to whom. But in this case, if he did nothing, the Dreadfort men might start attacking Lord Manderly's which was unacceptable and the Throne might take notice if he allowed such unruliness in his lands. So he must do something, even if he had no patience for the matter, to prevent a wide-spread war across the North. 

"He thinks I'm annoying, not a true threat or yes, a man as ruthless like Roose Bolton would no doubt go to war with me if he believed I really was one. But alas, we aren't here to discuss this in front of his daughter of all people. So, let me and my family escort you to our New Castle! You shall have a feast you needn't ever forget, my lord." Robb, Jon and Samara bowed before the big man as was proper before they went inside the city. 

Robb POV,

White Harbor was a safe city with guards everywhere and they were being escorted by guards of course.

Samara Bolton was behind him, her face down low. Robb knew she wasn’t the most social of people from their trip at the Mountain Trip. Samara Bolton was a shy creature and preferred the comforts of books then the presence of people. Jon Snow, his brother, was being standoffish and quiet as usual. Robb had never been able to read Jon’s dark grey eyes, they were as unreadable as Samara’s own icy blue eyes. Lucky them, Robb thought, when he was lord someday he wouldn’t have such a stare as Jon Snow or Samara, his own future lady wife

Robb saw many sailors, dressed in the traditional sailing gear of soft leather. Leather was the easiest to wear when sailing because one would drown significantly less. Some of them had whores in hands, of who smiled or winked at him with their dark eyes. He avoided them and walked away, although awkwardly. Robb was only nine and women who were so much older than him um showing interest in him like that was disgusting in Robb’s eyes. 

They were going to Wyman Manderly’s New Castle alongside the guards. The New Castle was built after their former seat of power in the Reach, Dunstonbury. All over the place hug the blue-and-green banner sigil of House Manderly. It was a merman, with a trident in hand. Besides him a girl with long blonde hair laughed, giggling like some kind of mermaid before holding his hand. Robb found himself blushing at the blonde girl, but he noticed she wore the sigil of House Manderly and she was about his age. 

“My name is Wylla Manderly and I’m your guide today, Lord Robb Stark and your… shy lady friend back there, what’s her name? I know she’s a Bolton of course, those icy blue eyes are one of their house’s most notable traits.” Wylla Manderly seemed like a brave action adventurous girl, with the way she ran through the streets like she owned it. Not to mention, Robb thought she was pretty with her shining blue eyes and long golden hair that shined in the light like a beacon. 

“My name is Samara.” The girl had a soft, quiet voice like her Lord Father’s but without any of the malice intention behind it. 

Wylla winked at Samara before skipping off to Jon, who was hiding in plain sight. He wasn’t blushing nor frowning just staring at Wylla with that expression Robb dubbed the Lord Stare. It was a stare that held no emotion, no anything at all, and it was unreadable as day was to night.

“And your Jon Snow the bastard of Winterfell. Charmed to meet you. I’m not like most noble women who will snob at your very presence, my father Wyllis and grandfather taught me better than that.” Jon’s grey eyes widened before he nodded. Jon had a natural adversity towards nobles due to the way his lady mother treated him, like dirt, so this probably surprised him.

“Oh. Well, we’re off to a great start then, my lady.” Jon said with a slight smile. 

“I hope so too, Jon. Come on with me, and I’ll show all the good hiding places in the New Castle.” She winked her blue eye at Jon before taking Robb’s hand and escorting him to the castle. Wylla took no notice of Samara who was indeed, being a shadow right now. Whenever she walked, she didn’t make noise and she was a very naturally quiet person. Some people forgot about Samara’s presence as a result of her quiet nature.

Samara didn’t respond to it, of course, she was a very passive and shy person. Her raven-hair was tied back in a braid and she walked with her arms behind her back, a passive gesture. Her head was up at least, even if she looked empty-eyed, like she had no emotions whatsoever.

When they arrived at the New Castle, they met up with her lady mother, Leona Woolfield. She was a flabby woman with Wylla's blonde hair and blue eyes. She greeted them cordially, as was their due as high lords and ladies of the North.

They had a feast in their honor as was their due. It was getting late so Robb had no interest in discussing the fineries of what-ate-what and what was eaten in that meal. But the Manderly’s ate more than the Starks and the young Bolton girl combined. 

After Robb ate and was no longer famished, he cleaned himself up and got dressed for bed. After a long fortnight of travel from Winterfell, Robb was looking forward to a fluffy bed to sleep on tonight.

_________________

Ned,

The children and himself stayed at White Harbor for two weeks before departing for one of Lord Manderly’s own levies, Ramsgate.

Part of the reason why they were doing the track across Manderly’s lands was to visit oblique and new castles so that Robb may understand his lands better. It was important for a Lord to know his lands and people so that he might make wise decisions from them in the future. 

Ramsgate was a small castle guarded by a man with a ram as a sigil. He was a mere landed Knight, so he was of no great importance. He was a small man with black eyes and a mischievous grin. 

Ramsgate was a defensible, neat little castle overlooking rich and fertile lands. Ned believed it was a six out of ten castles he’s seen, and he’s seen some truly terrible castle, with them being disorderly and the guards were off fucking whores rather than doing their watch. Not to mention, they were in a complete state of collapse, with only wood over their heads and nothing else. This castle was not one of such castles.

The Knight had a son about Robb’s age and asked if he could shelter him at Winterfell so that he might make friends his own age. Ned had to decline the offer but he offered thanks for the shelter and food.

They departed from the castle in two days time, and made their way down the gullet of the Broken Branch. The next time they’d go to Hornwood to parlay with the House Hornwood of the same name, on the way back to Winterfell.

The other castle known as Widow's Watch ruled by the Flints, a castle on the shoreline of the Summerset Sea. Waves crashed on it’s stony beach and it was a desolate, cold castle ruled by Lyessa Flint. Lyessa Flint was an old, strong woman of fifty years with sons and grandsons of her own. She had strong blue eyes and a full set of teeth in her mouth. 

Sometimes Ned would see Samara lodging outside of the castle, her cold eyes staring at the vast Summerset Sea with wonder in her childish eyes. Occasionally, Jon SNOW would join her by the seaside, and neither children said a word to one another. Yet Ned somehow suspected they enjoyed each other company.

The people here at crabs and fish caught from the sea as dinner & even for breakfast sometimes, but all the same the Flints came across as a hardy family. They were strong-boned and healthy, and Lynessa had produced six children from her Lord Husband, a Flint of the Mountains. A distant cousin of sorts, but the marriage made sure all children bore the last name Flint. 

Their stay there was short enough, but long enough for Robb to observe the fishermen communities here. The Flint’s small folk were mostly composed of fishermen and people who lived on boats. Their was a community of boating families around these parts, protected by the galleys bearing the sigil of House Manderly. 

They stayed here for about four days before departing back to Winterfell over the earthly pass of the Broken Branch. The pass was a long one and they’d make another stop before going back to Winterfell but it provided Robb and Samara a chance to see some of the Kingdom they were to rule over someday. While it might be tiresome business, travelling around all over the North, it was going to be worth it someday when Robb became Lord of Winterfell in his own right. Everybody would know him and respect him.

Which is exacty what he wanted for Robb, for him to be well-respected and regarded by the North men. A Lord must have the people’s best interest whilst ruling or be no better than Aerys, burning madman Aerys who burnt his brother and father alive. He wanted his son to be the very best ruler he could be.

They’d stay with the Hornwoods for none too long after the week long trek along the river’s basin, before heading back to Winterfell. Back to Catelyn’s warm arms and embrace Ned missed so much in the two months time they’ve been away from Winterfell.


	7. Barrowton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staring the Boltons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going through a bout of writers block so I hope everybody enjoys this after a week of me failing to post XDDDD

_283 AC,_

_At the Dreadfort,_

_A small woman with a swollen belly sat on the battlements, on a small wooden bench, overlooking the vast but currently snowed-in grasslands of the Redlands. She put a hand on her stomach and hoped her Lord Husband would return from war or her son, Domeric, would be the new Lord of the Dreadfort._

_She remembered his birth nearly killed her due to blood loss and the maester warned her that another pregnancy might kill her. But her Lord Husband wanted another son, he said, and so saying this, he consummated their marriage before he left to go off to the Trident, to fight a war for some Southerner Lord. Robert Baratheon, it was, but Bethany Bolton cared less for the South and it’s meaningless politics. They had no place in the North as far as Bethany Bolton was concerned._

_Her ladies were with her wild toddler right now in the playroom, so she was all alone, sitting by herself on the battlements of the Dreadfort, as it’s Regentess until her Lord Husband returned from war. If he did at all. Men died in war, that much Bethany knew, so there was a chance he might die on the Trident. Her relationship with the Lord of the Dreadfort was dutiful, lacking love, but he wasn’t too bad in bed._

_She was near term with this babe, not much longer until the birth of Lord Bolton’s second healthy child. The baby was moving and shaking, kicking her stomach with it’s tiny fists and feet. Barba had given her lord three stillborn children and two miscarriages so far, but the maester said the babe in womb was strong and healthy._

_The wind was strong and cold, not exactly the sort of weather a near term pregnant woman should be sitting in. But Bethany didn’t mind the chill of the air, the swirling snowflakes brushing against her pink cheeks. Her petticoat was long and full of thick bear fur, it was an extremely warm fluffy coat so she wasn’t all that cold to begin with. Fresh snow fell from the sky as tiny but delicate snowflakes, and the snow piled none-too considerably on the dead, red grasslands of the so-called redlands. Her own bench was full of snow and ice, but Bethany was of the North and she wanted to see the snow & the view the long, tall battlements offered her of the Redlands. One last time, before the baby came into the world, to see Autumn’s kiss. _

_Somehow, she knew it would be the last time she’d ever see this view of the Dreadfort looking like a winter wonderland like it looked like right now._

_Snow, as white as dust, as cold as ice, as mushy as mud. She had always enjoyed playing in snow when she was a child at her former home. She’d miss the crumbling, cold touch of it when she was no doubt bedridden for weeks on end like she was with Domeric, her sweet, innocent child. He looked so much like his father, with his ice blue eyes and raven hair she played with from time to time. He had Roose’s same average shaped face too, but she thought Domeric was positively handsome. Like any mother… Bethany tried being a good mother to Dom, the messy baby he was._

____________________________

**Ned Stark,**

**Barrowton,**

Barrowton consisted of mostly flat grasslands, besides for the large hill Barrowcastle sat upon. It was said to be a buneral ground to the Barrow Kings of days long since gone or of a giant’s tomb. Or it simply might be a hill, but either way, it was the only hill in the famously well-known flatlands. 

Whilst Ned had expected to visit Barrowton and the Barrowlands last of all, due to Lady Dustin’s known hatred of him. He had decided to forgo with such when news of Domeric Bolton came to his attention. He was leaving for the Vale at the end of this month.

Barrowcastle was made of thick redwood logs, a pure wooden castle. It was similar in design to Deepwood Motte but instead of being in the middle of a woodland, it was on a hill. As they went along, Ned spotted one wooden watchtower overlooking the flatlands. But since the Barrowlands were so flat and treeless, it seemed to him rather than it be about knowing where the enemy was at, it was used as a secondary defense tower. 

Lady Barbery Dustin was the widow of Lord William Dustin, and current head of House Dustin after his demise. She was a strong woman, with dark brown-colored hair and narrow brown eyes. Her current heir was Lord Dustin’s second cousin, a boy of four-and-ten named Brandon. No doubt trying to vie for his favor, naming him after his dead brother. Lady Mormont tried doing similar by naming her lastborn daughter after his sister Lyanna.

The Widow of Barrowton was waiting for them in the small town of Barrowton. Her eyes were narrow and her dark brown hair was pushed back into a tight bun. She was raven-colored from head-to toes, but the dress she wore was clearly made for a noblewoman. Besides her stood a young boy, with raven-colored hair and icy blue eyes. He was a plain looking young boy dressed in pink, his average face looked downwards as if he was shy. 

“Welcome Lord Eddard Stark, to Barrowton. I hope your stay here is sufficient enough.” There was an irrefutable coldness behind her voice. It made Ned’s neck hairs jump as if they were to be panicked by some woman. 

“I hope it is and I hope our stay is welcoming as it comes, Lady Dustin..” He stared at the young boy next to him who was staring at Samara with clear longing in those icy blue eyes of his. “Why hello Domeric. I remember your visit to Winterfell, with your lord father. You seemed like a good young boy, although a bit shy, like your sister here.”

“Thank you Lord Eddard Stark, I don’t mean to be _good,_ I mean to be strong. Father told me that a Lord must be strong or people will… stomp all over you and I don’t mean to be that sort of Lord.” Ned had to smile at the young lad. He certainly had spirit, even if Roose Bolton had influenced him to think such. He wasn’t entirely wrong about that statement either, a Lord must be strong or else his lords will stomp all over him.

“Roose Bolton isn’t wrong about that, or else people will think I’m easy to dispose of. But a bit of kindness does much in the way of making your people love you. You want that, don’t you Domeric?” 

“I guess I do, um, my lord.” He shrugged. “But my father says a Lord must be feared not loved, because fear is the best medicine to any rebellious attitudes. Love means nothing, a Lord can be loved and be disposed of just as easily with the right arrow. But I dunno, I would like my people to _like_ me, I guess.” 

Ned nodded, dropping the subject. "A Lord must think about his people before anything else, a wise and true sentiment. But would you like to spend some time with your sister before you go off to the Vale? Did you know when I was little I was fostered by Jon Arryn, my son’s namesake, and my foster brother of sorts was the current King. Robert Baratheon. I had such a fun time there as a youngling, so long ago, that I hope your experience is the same way.” Ned remembered the Vale, like one would remember a happy dream happening so long ago. 

“Uh… of course, my lord.” He bowed before giving him a shy smile of sorts. “Thank you for bringing my s-sister here.” 

Samara Bolton took a step forward and looked at her brother. Domeric took his blood-red Princess somewhere else, gently escorting her by the arm. His two boys behind him stared at them but were silent. 

**Domeric Bolton,**

Dom had to live without Samara’s kindness for two years now. He remembered their goodbye to one another at the Dreadfort, when Sam was going off to Winterfell and himself off to Barrowton. They didn’t know they’d get to spend another second together, until now that is. 

Until Lord Stark decided to unite the siblings one last time like the nice man he was. He’d treasure every last moment he had with Samara.

Samara looked so grown-up from when she was ten and had hid in her chambers to keep away from folk. Her eyes were far colder and icier than before, like his own became after seeing that terrible flaying. Her hair was in a braid, her manners were shy but distant. After Lord Father’s flaying of that man in front of them, she had become remarkably distant and seemed even more afraid of people if possible. Whilst no longer hiding under beds as she used back when she was five, it didn’t mean that she didn’t hide herself any less.

“Samara, you look so much older than beforehand. “ He said, staring at her. She had indeed grown an inch or so. Her face which used to be so full of baby fat, was becoming progressively thin-cheeked. 

“And you are going to be a different man when you come back here, to the North. I might not even know you, Domeric. “

“I’ll always be that shy boy that protected you from the Dreadfort’s Heart Tree when Lord Father went off to war. I’ll always be that boy that played you songs on my harp to your delight during your eighth namesday. Did you know I practiced that song for days before I sung it for you? I’ll always be the brother you’ve known, little sister, you needn’t worry. I shall not come back any less horse-loving or harp-singing then beforehand, trust me sister. “

She nodded before hugging him softly. “You look like our father, hasn’t anybody told you that?” 

He nodded. Barbery told him he looked like Roose Bolton at the same age, same plain, average face and the same chilling eyes. But he was different from him.. He hoped at any rate. He wanted to be a good lord, like what Lord Eddard Stark told him. He wanted his people to love him, to _adore_ him, not for him to be feared or something, even though that was a part of being a Lord ruling over lands. Making people fear him, but he didn’t want to do flaying in his time as Lord of the Dreadfort someday…

“I’ll miss you sister, even though we’ll be away from one another I’ll still write letters to you and our Lord Father.” 

She gave him a small smile before she separated from him. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from my gallant older brother.”

They walked back to the others and he thought about seeing Samara pregnant with that ginger-haired boy’s baby. When she was much older and mature than the girl standing next to him currently. Domeric supposed he might find himself looking at a completely different matured woman. The thought of seeing her as an adult found himself looking at a beautiful young woman, because she was very pretty now. 

He kissed her forehead, and held her close. “I’ll always be there for you, Sam. No matter how far away I am. _Our Blades are Sharp_ Samara, and you my sister forevermore, forever in my heart. Offering me kind advice and sweet whispers in the dark about disturbing things. Ghosts full of blood and malice, screaming in agony. I’ll always remember you sleeping with me in my room, scared as can be, until you fell asleep in my arms. You make me feel braver than I usually would be, Samara. I feel like I wouldn’t be brave enough to do this if not for you.” He said softly against her ear. He was serious, she made him brave enough to do this. If she could withstand Winterfell being as shy as she was, he could withstand going to the Vale to a totally new place. If she could do it, so could he.

“I’ll always remember you as my warm brother who loves puppies and kittens enough to feed them beef from the Kitchens even though Lord Father was against it. I’ll always think of you, Dom, and the thought of you warms my heart towards people, socially awkward and shy I am. I’ll always think of you as a kind, sweet boy although when you return from the Vale, you’ll be a man.” She gave him a sad, soft smile on those full ruby red-colored lips of hers. She had always been so beautiful, so warm, so lovely, ever since their lady mother died giving birth to her. Their Lord Father had remarked that often when they were little, Dom would climb into her crib and sleep with his newfound sibling. Their Lord Father had been very disappointed by Samara’s sex, according to Helena, their old nan. He had wanted a spare heir, not a useless daughter but he had since gotten over his disappointment over Samara’s birth.

Domeric let go of her and wiped his tears away. He had been crying somewhat, because he was going to find courage from another space now. She was going back to Winterfell with Lord Ned Stark, he accepted this but she was a source of strength to him. Her and her problems inspired him to do things about his own _problems._

“Let’s go back to the others, my lovely sister. You will grow up to be a great beauty of the North no doubt, whilst I’ll grow up to look plain looking, like our Lord Father. I hope to come back and be a man you're proud to call brother.”

“Domeric, I am already proud to call you my kin and brother.” She said softly behind him, filling his eyes full of unbidden, unwanted tears once more. He wanted to be the greatest Lord of the Dreadfort since Lady Samara Bolton, who ruled over the Dreadfort during the Dance of Dragons. 

_I’ll always remember you saying those words, sweet sister._ Domeric thought to himself and said nothing, for fear he might end up crying on her shoulders. So he took her by the arm and brought her back to Lord Stark.

______________

**Jon Snow,**

He & Robb were playing a game of catch with a ball of thick leather, all tied together and fascinated into a ball-shape. It was a fun game, them kicking it about and chasing after one another. They were outside of the warm wooden castle known as Barrowcastle, the home of House Dustin. House Dustin was an old house relating back to the Barrow Kings, who were said to be the very first Kings of the North and Westeros before they lost all land in an unknown calamity. Their lands were windswept and poor, but hey, at least it was flat and so the ball was easy to kick around. That much was a huge positive in Jon Snow's eyes.

Lady Barbery was a shrewd woman, but undeniably cool towards his lord father. Robb and himself were playing around with one another, as bored boys were wont to do in times of boredom. 

The adults were discussing something Jon cared nought about, until Samara and her brother reappeared after an hour of private conversation. Her brother’s ghost grey eyes were teary, like he was upset. Jon didn’t think Domeric was that bad of a boy, shy and curious maybe, but not malice-filled. Neither Bolton children were full of malice in his bastard viewed eyes, and he had met malice people before, who hated baseborn children & any relating to them. Like Catelyn Tully, who loathed him for being his father’s son, taught him about how cruel nobles could be. 

“Saying goodbye is _hard_ isn’t Domeric?” Jon knew that he was going to the Vale and said this in a soft, comforting way to the Bolton heir. Or at least tried too. Some people didn’t want to be comforted, but Jon didn’t know what else to say but _words_ of comfort. Something to clear the awkward tension in the air.

Domeric didn’t answer him besides for a slight nod of the head. That was enough of an indication in Jon’s eyes. That Roose Bolton’s heir loved his little sister and saying goodbye to her made him feel upset. He couldn’t blame him, if he said goodbye to Arya and went away to the far South he’d probably feel the same way.

“Oh I’d probably feel the same way if I had to say goodbye to Sansa. I feel like I have to protect her from the world of bad things, considering she’s always fascinating about Southern Ser Knights and such from old tales. I may not be a Prince, but I feel like one to my little sister.” Robb said from behind them. Robb and Sansa had always been deeply close as siblings. Robb was extremely overprotective of Sansa's safety and general well-being, her clearly being his favorite sister out of the two girls. Jon's favorite was without any question Arya, because they shared the same coloring and she seemed to be an outsider to the rest of the Stark children like Jon felt he was, whenever Catelyn Tully was about.

“T-thanks for the comforting words, both of y-you.” The Bolton Heir sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. “I just wanted to say that I’m going back to my quarters. Thank you for the nice words, Lord Robb, Jon Snow, I appreciate them greatly.” The boy walked away from the lot of them, as shy as one could be. Samara watched him go with a slight smirk on her lips and waved her hand a little, as he departed from the scene.

______________________

**Ned Stark POV,**

They’d stay at Barrowton for the weekend at the very least, before going back to Winterfell. In that time, he’d think about pampering Jon to be Lord of Moat Cailian and a Stark in his own right. He had been thinking of that possibility for awhile now, but it now seemed more real now that he was dragging the boy to a windswept, desolate place like the Barrowlands. 

Lady Barbery and himself discussed giving her nephew Brandon in marriage to one of Lord Glover’s kin. She said it was a strategic, well placed marriage and Ned was not one to disagree with the engagement between House Dustin and House Glover, since their union may very well help to unify the North regionally. 

The game of thrones and lords alike, however, is alway on-going, no matter what the struggle entails in the end..

_______________________

**The North,**

**The Dreadfort,**

**Six months later,**

Thick, darp red blood ran hard on the cold dark pale pink flooring of the Dreadforts prison cells, the blood-curdling screams of guilty men filled the gloomy, damp place. Sharp metal knifed pale, white flesh and pools of deep red blood splattered on the tiles like a lake. Dark tidings, dark words, a raider from Essos had come, raided the areas of the Redlands and the Weeping River with his pack of pirates. It had taken Lord Roose Bolton several weeks to catch the lot of them, and even then, one or maybe two had escaped beyond his reach. 

The man screaming on the cold, black rack with his previously handsome features mangled, was their leader, the filthy scum Jarold of Lys. He had been caught by the Dreadfort men with a peasant woman he had caught during one of their raiding attempts, and with him, were four-dozen other men. All of them had been gutted of their internal organs before being hanged from trees, like common criminals. But this man? The Lord of the Dreadfort had plans for him, indeed.

“Scum like you reminds me of the pirate lord Balon Greyjoy. Did you know I made a pair of boots out of one of his raiders? But human skin isn’t as durable as cow hide, or else I’d gladly make you another.” The Lord of the Dreadfort personally did his own cow-hiding of prisoners - and besides, seeing the man’s gruesome red face staring at him was worthy of a site. He once had a sly smile full of shiny white teeth before one by one, he pulled out the man’s teeth. Of course he screamed for mercy, but the Lord of the Dreadfort was no such man.. No mercy would be shown for such dirt, not even if he begged for his own mother’s life. But Roose Bolton didn’t feel enjoyment out of this bloody work, no, only a man consumed by madness would enjoy such gruesome work. 

He of course couldn’t speak, but just stared at Roose with those brown eyes of his, that used to be so cocksure confidence. But now, all it was gore. Roose’s clothing was full of rusted, dry blood and he smelled terrible, no doubt. It was messy work, torturing & flaying men like this, but it had to be done. He could’ve left one of his torturers to deal with this sad excuse of a man, but Roose liked dealing with his own prisoners & their punishment. Not as a sadist, but because lessons needed to be learned and because Roose Bolton was unafraid to get his hands dirty.

The man did still have a face, although his nose was broken and beaten-into a gorey red mush. His eyes were swollen and black. Although, somewhere else he had been flayed - and his bloody skin was in a silver bucket next to the torturous device he was laying on currently. The man had a full set of golden-blonde hair caked with dried blood. He had been flayed on his stomach, which had been a rightfully painful experience for the man who screamed like a banshee, so loud and full of terror. It was such a terrible noise that Roose Bolton had put a muzzle on the man's skinny pale lips, so he wouldn’t have to hear the sounds of the man screaming anymore.

Roose Bolton supposed that he should bring his shimmering slicking wet blade to the man’s throat to kill him. He was not one to enjoy a man’s suffering, at any rate. He couldn’t even speak due to what Roose did to the man and his tongue was bright red & sticky, always coming in and out. He probably wanted Roose to kill him, so he decided to put the knife across his throat. “Lucky for you, I don’t take much joy in torturing you. I may be a monster, but I’m not _that_ much of a monster. A monster who takes joy out of suffering is not what I am.” So in saying this, he released the man from the world by slitting his throat. 

After the man died, Lord Bolton took out a red washing cloth and wiped the blade of the fresh dark blood dripping off of it’s sharp tip.

His clothes were a right mess, full of thick blood stains and gore, he probably smelled like bloodied flesh too. After this he’d take a bath with his leeches before he got busy with his mistress, a shapely young woman of low birth. Roose Bolton had taken a liking to whoring, ever since his second wife giving birth to Samara. 

As for the body, he requested to the head Gulager that they remove and burn it. The Head Gulager was a small man with narrow milky-white eyes. Most people said he was a formidable, but intimidating man, despite his small stature. He was a balding man, with thin wispy nearly white-blonde colored hair on his head. He had a broken nose, and a large scar going from his left eye to his chin. Roose believed he was a perfect gulager due to his nearly inexhaustible patience, and so upon his instructions the middling man nodded without saying a word & he and the other gulagers picked up the body before presumably doing what he said.

He’d leave the dungeon and head up to his apartments, where his mistress usually hung about. Her name Josselyn, and she was a buxom wench of twenty. He had a thing for lady flesh & after his second wife died, Roose Bolton decided to whore about whilst waiting for Samara and Domeric to grow up. Of course Domeric was to succeed him when he died - or It’d be Samara if Domeric died mysteriously, but one thing was for certain, Roose rather die than let… _him_ have the Dreadfort. The Dreadfort was not to be given like a handbag to some degenerate bastard who can't even read much less deal with other lords, due to his lowly birth and status. He'd rather the Dreadfort be inherited to a woman then to to such dirt.

He'd be busy getting changed from his gorey, blood-covered outfit into a fresh pair of pink chainmail & blood red myrish silk pants but most importantly, it was fortunate his mistress wasn't here. Or he might loss her forevermore. Which would be unfortunate for her actually, as Roose didn't want to rip her lush tongue out of her mouth meant for sucking. He'd also put on fresh perfume too, to hide whatever horrible smell remained on his person. 

Today was the day Samara visited him from Winterfell, considering she is his only child currently in the North. Well, not the _only_ one but the only one Roose Bolton cared about as an actual father. The other _one_ , well he wasn’t worth speaking about. He was a nobody living on a Miller’s farm and neither one of his true born welps knew of his existence & neither would _ever_ know about it. 

When his lady wife died whilst he was at the Trident, she had given the newborn girl the name Samara, of whom was named after the most famous Lady Samara Bolton of the Dreadfort. Lady Samara Bolton ruled the Dreadfort in the time of the Dance, and was a fominable, strong woman with an iron steel will. She was one of the Dreadforts most fearsome lords, even though House Bolton & the North hardly took much part in the Dance itself. That didn’t mean the Lady of the Dreadfort was one to ignore the troubles in the South, or to ignore it like many of the Northerner Lords did, hoping that the Dragons wouldn’t trouble them. She planned the defenses of the Dreadfort against such enemies and when Lord Cregan Stark offered his allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, the Lady of the Dreadfort offered to assist him in rousing the sleepy Northerner Lords. She as the Lady of the Dreadfort would become known as the Battlemistress because of what she'd do to assist Lord Stark. 

It was a suitable enough name for a lady of their House, he consigned. Besides, his Samara had such a lovely little heart shaped face that such an attractive name only belonged to an alluring child.

Samara Bolton was on her way to the Dreadfort after spending six months with the Starks, such as their arrangement went. His only true born child in the North right now, since Domeric was in the Vale currently. Such a lovely child in a great marriage contract. She would serve his needs as a dutiful daughter _ought_ to her lord father.

It was only right, because he had plans for his little rose of a daughter. Plans to make her the greatest Bolton Lady since her own namesake was alive in Westeros The original Samara Bolton had destroyed a rebellion in her region, being only merely half-a child by then. The way she ruthlessly destroyed her enemies was akin to what Lord Tywin Lannister did to the Tarbucks. Nobody would ever dare challenge her by the time he was done transforming the shy, but solemn girl into a proper lady of their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought it would be interesting to show Roose Bolton's POV XD
> 
> and also woop woop ramsays comin' to town at long last XDD Also this my attempt to write horror, so tell me how it is. I don't know, but I think it's well written though XD Also I don't image Book!Roose liking Ramsay so...


	8. A Flayed Man Is an Honest One

_Winterfell,_

_It was a cold summer's day today, with the sun high up in the blue sky. Samara hid herself from dawn under the shadows, as was her norm to do. She was still very new here in Winterfell, so she was still getting used to her surroundings. She did know something about where she was within the gates of the castle, nearby the First Tower. It was a massive, arching tower that was falling apart, because every year or so it would lose bricks which would tumble down from a great height. A man could throw himself off the tower and would smash on the ground in bloody chucky pieces._

_As Samara stood looking up at the great tower's vast height, thinking to herself that it was the biggest tower she'd ever seen in her youthful life. The Dread Tower, her father's own personal bedchamber tower, wasn't as big as this castle stood. Even if it stood a bit lopsided. It was so old that Maester Luwin told her that they had no idea of it's true age due to it being rebuilt so many times that the First Tower's origins would forever remain a mystery like Winterfell itself. Samara knew the Dreadfort was built around the time Brandon the Builder existed, making it a truly old castle. It was one of the eldest castles in the entire Seven Kingdoms, and they could trace back the age of the castle too, making it a curiosity in the eyes of many Maesters._

_She wondered how old the tower was, because it seemed as high as the clouds above in the great blue sky to a small person like herself. She couldn't even see the top of it from where she stood._

_Footsteps were loudly heard on the marble Winterfell was built on, so she'd know somebody was coming nearby her at any rate. And some fella was on their way here judging by the sounds of their heels, but Samara didn't care too much. She might be more introverted, but they probably would know more about this part of the castle than she would. So she would welcome the company, at any rate._

_"That's the First Keep and it's said that Brandon the Builder once ruled from here thousands of years ago." A young boy's voice was behind her, so she turned around to see Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was a boy with a long face and grey eyes. Samara believed young Jon Snow looked like Ned Stark, but much younger than the dour lord in his late twenties he was now. "I've always wondered about its origins too, and sometimes when Robb isn't looking, I go inside of the First Keep. It still has a door, even if the staircase inside is all crumbly and unusable. I like imaging sitting on our wolf throne inside of our so-called new Keep and image being Brandon the Builder commissioning the Wall from the grand fort." His voice was soft and childish, but he seemed friendly enough. He didn't come across as a particularly friendly person at the gates of Winterfell so it was a surprise to her that he was being this friendly._

_"Oh? At the Dreadfort, our oldest tower is the Dread Tower. My Lord Father lives there as Boltons have done since the time of the Red Kings. It's been torn down a couple of times, unlike some of our other buildings, but it's still so old that the Maester's say it's a thousand years old or even possibly, older still." Samara rather enjoyed talking about Northerner history & the comment of him pretending to be Brandon the Builder made Samara smile slightly. She could imagine him bringing in a chair from the outside and pretending to be a King of the Old North, as harsh and honorable as they could come. Her brother pretended to be one of the Red Kings once, when they were much younger, and made-pretend to rip out her heart as the old Red Kings were wont to do & she'd fall on the ground, in a dramatic fashion. They stopped playing this game when one of Domeric's young noble friends noted that it made Dom look like a heartless monster. Such was their burden as Boltons of the Dreadfort._

_Jon Snow shyly smiled. "Does looking at it make you feel as small as this tower does? I feel like an ant underneath it. I like imagining that Brandon the Builder sat on top of the tower when he was overlooking the construction of the Wall, but since the staircase up to the top of the Tower is destroyed at any rate, I dare not climb up the Tower. I'm not a fool and besides, the fall from such height would likely kill me at any rate."_

_The girl thought about this for a moment before staring upwards, imaging doing the same to the Dread Tower. The Dread Tower was the most imposing of the towers guarding the Dreadfort and the entire castle was built around it, well supposedly. Samara didn't know for certain, as with legends and such were more often fanciful tales more often than not. This tower was titling but Samara couldn't even see the square rooftop of the tall building from where she currently was standing. No wonder why he felt like an ant in its presence, it was towered over the two of them and made them seem so small & tiny in comparison._

_"My father's tower has more presence, but I feel like it would be tiny in comparison to this tower if they were put side by side. No wonder why you feel like an ant underneath it's gaze, Jon." She hoped her Lord Father never heard those words or he'd build his tower even higher than before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see a super imposing Dread Tower, with it's shrieking ghouls and ghasts statues serving as one would call protectors of the fort. Such an image would make Samara sigh besides herself, as it would be frightening to behold indeed._

_"You don't seem that bad for a noble girl, which is good. In the past, several other noble girls didn't like me very much and shunned me. They call me 'Snow' in such a patronizing voice when they were actually addressing me for once and never call me Jon. I'm glad you call me Jon, and not just Snow."_

_Samara was not like a typical noblewoman, who more often than not was snobbish and pretentious to those of a lower rank than themselves. Samara addressed whomever she pleased in whatever way she saw fit, damning the consequences of said choice. "I am not like most noblewomen who consider bastards to be dirt under heels. I talk to whomever I want and whomever objects to it, be damned with yee. My Lord Father would however, call you a Bastard or Snow. But I'm not him nor more than I'm one of those noblewomen."_

_Jon actually smiled at that, a real genuine one, like he was actually happy. She could even see it in his grey eyes so similar to Lord Eddard's own eyes.. "I enjoyed our conversation about the First Keep, Lady Samara. It was most enlightening and educational, I never knew Lord Bolton lived in a high tower himself. Thank you, um, so my father sent me here to collect you for lessons with Septa Mordane. Robb and Theon are fighting right now in the Courtyard, leaving me to collect you. Sansa would've done so, but she… had no idea.. Where you are, so they sent me to collect you. Um, I'm thankful I could find you, Samara Bolton, as it is." He sounded so awkward it was cute in Samara's eyes & she found it very enduring, if she was being honest._

_"Thank you for collecting me, Jon." She had been in truth, avoiding the Septa because she wasn't in the mood to be lectured about her poor needlework abilities. She was an awful clutz with her needlework, with her hands being about as useful as sausages when holding the hard metal object. The Septa thought her small white hands were as useful to needlework as Sansa was at sums, which was to say none-at- all good. But she wouldn't tell Jon that though. "Bring me to the Septa, wherever she may be." She wondered if the Septa of the all-mighty noble seven would lecture her from her lateness._

The Dreadfort,

The air in the Dreadfort was cold and clammy, as Lady Samara entered the bleeding castle with her huge wooden suitcase of her pink and blood red dresses her Lord Father gave her.

Her Lord Father awaited her inside the huge red-painted gates of the Dreadfort in the Red ack Courtyard. He was dressed in pink chainmail armor and the dread sigil of House Bolton was painted on it. Her Lord father had her same raven-colored hair and ghost grey-colored eyes, as all House Bolton members have possessed since their founder created their house, a man known as Ice Eyes. He was a son of one of the Barrowton Kings, or so they said, who was famously well known for his ghost grey eyes and for flaying Skin-changers who came into his domain. Eventually, he created House Bolton, after taking a maiden from House Stark, as his wife & queen, making him the very first Red King. Samara didn't know how much of this legend she should trust, but it was an interesting enough of a tale.

The Red Courtyard had transformed in her mind as a place of ghosts and horrors, with thick red blood dripping from its crusted rooftop overhead onto the pink tile of the Courtyard below. It was a place of horrors, with the sounds of screaming men and people's unjointed voices wailing in pure blood-curling agony from whatever torture befell them. Some voices and untold shadows were pushing towards the great, raven-colored barb gate that was the entrance of the dread castle.

Winterfell had its own shadows, but none were as pitch-black and ghastly as the spirits that inhabited the Dreadfort. The ones at Winterfell was more kinder than the ones here, well besides for the Stark Kings of old whose presence was brooding and cold

Her Lord father smirked at her when she arrived through the great gates, although he had no such smile in those stone-cold blue eyes of his. Her Lord Father never smiled with his eyes, nor did he show obvious signs of emotions. Unless he was angry, but he hardly ever was.

"My dear, sweet Sammy, back to home at last. How was your stay with the Starks, dearest one?" Her father's voice was as soft and gentle as always, but Samara could understand him if he stood a hundred feet apart from her.

"I wrote you a letter about it." She responded as one of the bagmen picked up her baggage and brought it to her chambers. Theon Greyjoy was a jerk who made fun of her, called her a horsey girl and not so frightening that she'd let's say, flay him on a stick like her family was well known for doing. Samara wondered if Theon had brains saying such things to her and she just stared at him in a state of shock. She wondered if he'd ever actually been to the Dreadfort before and was tempted to ask him to say this in front of her Lord Father. He _hated_ the Ironborn after their rebellion. Theon's response to her stare was to back down, as people usually did when she stared at them, and leave. At least that was wise, unlike any other statements he made in relation to herself & family..

"You did indeed, my little love. It was a very good, well-written letter. Did you write it yourself, child?" Her father bent down to her level and stared at her with his icy blue eyes. They had the same coloring, of course, her being his daughter and all that. "I think that as a lady of our House that you, my dearest girl, aren't quite there yet. Ladies of our House are formidable ladies, my sweet little one. Your nature does not allow you to be that, and even though I know your nature is that warmth & kindness, a Lady must be ruthless to get to her goals Besides, you like Jon Snow as more then a friend, do you not?." Her Lord Father's eyes filled with amusement at the question, and the truth was, she did. Jon Snow and herself shared many similarities, like they were both introverts and both were terribly misunderstood, her for being a Bolton and him for being baseborn. She couldn't help but feel a kinship for him. What did her like of Jon Snow have to do _with_ anything though? Was it a weakness to like somebody now? Besides Lord Stark was friends with the King, who could legitimize him as a Stark instead of a Snow.

"Jon Snow is still a son of Lord Ned Stark. Father, what do you plans to get me _hardened_ and _formidable_ as you put it." Samara wondered if he was going to make her kill somebody and the thought made Samara's eyes grow large with worry. She didn't want to kill anybody if she couldn't help it, and beside her Lord Father was ruthless when he wanted people to do things. He could make her do.. Unthinkable things.

Her father smiled at her, before he patted the top of her head. "He's not a Stark nor heir to Winterfell, darling." He stood up before taking her by her hand, leading her through the Red Courtyard. He instructed the men to continue taking her luggage back to her quarters within the Children's Barracks, where her & Domeric's quarters were.

He'd lead her to where three men were standing, surrounded by quite a few Dreadfort Guards and hands were bound by leather. It was a public event, it would seem, and whatever was she doing here? Was she here to see them being tortured? They were standing on a wooden platform, and their long hair was all scraggly & dirty looking. They were covered in huge, black bruises from presumably where the guards kicked them, and even though their months were covered by leather straps, Samara could still see red spittle leaking from their bruised black lips. Samara wondered why she was here, before these broken, bruised kneeling men. Was she to see them be executed or what?

"These men are wildings who invaded the Redlands and we must teach them a public lesson on what happens to raiders. I didn't do _this_ lesson to the raiders from Essos, even though I should've. Alas, even men like me make mistakes every once in a while, and besides, It didn't take anything from my reputation as a fearsome leader. I still captured them and killed them as it was. The reason I bring you here before these fellas is because I'd like you to whip two of them until their backs are covered in bloody marks. The third one, well I'm going to make him a public example by flaying him in front of everybody. He's their Leader, you see, and I'm going to send his skin to that useless Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, for all he failed to contain the wildings raids in recent years. This is the third wilding party to rape and pillage my people this year, and none of them have learned from what happened to the very first party. You remember them, don't you, sweet one? I flayed their leader too. I'm getting awfully tired of having to defend my good, peaceful smallfolk against such foes." Her father had a whip in his hands. It was a huge, wiry thing that he proceeded to fling against one of the wildings faces. The man in question recoiled back from the power of the attack, his eyes looked huge and oval-shaped like two pears. Half of the man's face was taken back by her lord father's strike with the rod. The common folk smiled and cheered as their Lord punished the wrong-doers, who had raided their lands and raped their daughters.

He gave her the rod next, but not before gently brushing his hand against her cheek and smiling. "You still have such lovely skin, love. Do me proud, will you?" Samara's eyes widened and accepted the bloodied black rod in hand. She wondered if her brother was forced to do something as barbaric as this… to torture their prisoners…

She whipped the rod on the two men's backs and giant, red slashes appeared on their hairy white spines. They were screaming in pain though, even through the straps preventing them from making noises and one of the men fell down from the kneeling position he was in currently. She swung the whip at least several times until her dress was covered in dark blood from having whipped them at least five times. By then, Samara could see the thick, dark marks of the whip visible on their skin. It was horrific to look at, to hear their pain, but her father wanted her to do this. She couldn't say no to his requests because he was her lord, her father, and her current master, she was _bound_ to do whatever he willed her to do. She had no choice in the matter. Their flesh flung aside onto the platform each time she whipped them, she could see bits and pieces of bright red flesh landing on the wooden platform. Each time she whipped them, their wounds sprayed fresh dark red blood on the lovely pink dress Lord Stark had given her. He had told her how much _he_ loved her, Lord Stark, who would never make her do something as monstrous as this act.

After the tenth strike, her lord father took back the rod from her fumbling hands and gave her a hug. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie. You did great by our house my little love, and you sure taught these rapists a lesson they shall never forget." Samara's eyes were filled with unwanted tears because she didn't _want_ to whip them, to hurt them like she did - Samara was _no_ monster, truly, and all this act did was prove them right. That House Bolton had no reasonable, nice members of it's house. But then again, these men had _hurt_ her people, had raped innocent little girls about her age, and had stolen grain from hard working farmer folk. They had deserved this, being whipped until their backsides were covered in huge, bloody marks from the whip's strikes against them. They deserved more than that even, they deserved to be made into eunuchs and for their balls to hang on her bedroom door for any future-to be rapists to think about what could happen to them.

Samara nodded her eyes unclogged with tears and were replaced by a look of determination "They deserved it for hurting our people. They deserve more then that even, you should send the Night's Watch these men's pathetic, wormy penuis's. Rape is an unacceptable crime by any law and worthy of such punishment, father."

Roose Bolton nodded and got down to her level. "The Night's Watch would hardly object to such, but they wouldn't know what to do with them, _dearest._ They hardly ever use their balls there anyhow." He laughed and it was a sound as cold & chilling as a winter night. "But if you'd like, I can make the man's ball hang off your doorframe. I'm sure any future invaders to the Dreadfort will think twice about harming you if they saw them hanging on there. Do you want that, dearest? I can make it happen, just for you." He bopped her nose gently in response, as if he were on Ned Stark's level of friendliness. Sometimes the Lord of Winterfell would do that to his own children, but he never forced them to whip prisoners or see them be publicly frayed. She had never told him the truth of that, out of fear and because she didn't want her Lord Father getting in trouble with the law. So she told Ned Stark nothing, none of them anything in relation to her father's crime and kept that incident a secret in her heart.

"No... no, why am I enjoying this cruelty father? I'm... not a sadist... what's wrong with me?" Samara then begun crying, suddenly and heavily, with huge fat hot tears falling onto her cheeks. She wanted to run away from the gorey, awful scene in front of her. She wasn't a stereotypical Bolton sadist, no, she didn't _enjoy_ the pain of others. No, no, Samara ran away as far as her short legs could drag her, tears running down her face blocking her view of everything. Her Lord Father shouted for her and left the platform to collect her, but she was gone before he could get her. She continued running down to her chambers, where she fell into utter pieces as she lay on her pink-colored bed. She felt _so_ utterly dead, like she was a terrible person. She hurt people _hurt_ them, and she found _pleasure_ in it, making all the most sinister and evil in her youthful mind.

_I'm an awful person, suggesting that we cut off their dicks to give to the Night's Watch. I'm awful for enjoying their pain. I'm just what everybody thinks I am, an evil girl. I sure proved them right..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I've been doing a lot of filler to fill in their childhood, okay. I don't want it to come across as forced when I age Sam & all them up at least 3 more years.


End file.
